The Canadian Magazine 1893-07: Vol 1 Iss 5

fe oe

MUSKOKA.

SHADOW RIVER,

THE

CANADIAN

VOL. I.

MAGAZINE.

JULY, 1893. No. 5.

THE BIRTH OF LAKE ONTARIO.

BY PROF, A. B. WILLMOTT, M.A., MCMASTER UNIVERSITY.

‘* The waters wear the stones.” —Job.

ALTHOUGH the mother of Lake On-
tario has long since passed away, and
without unfolding the secret of her
daughter’s birth, the history of our
lake is not wholly wrapped in obscu-
rity. Indeed, a voluminous autobiog-
raphy has been given us, written on
the rocky pages that surround her
very form. Unfortunately, however,
we are yet unable to decipher with
certainty her ancient hieroglyphics.
In some cases the sculpturing is
of ambiguous meaning, and in others
the writings are washed away, or cov-
ered with soil.

That the lake has not always had
its present form, is easily recognized.
One has but to recall its known flue-
tuations in level and to note the many
old beaches, now several miles inland,
to realize that our lake was once even
more ocean-like than it is now. There
was a time when the waters rolled
fifteen to twenty miles farther north,
and the site of Toronto was the feeding-
ground of tish.

That the surface level has also been
lower is equally evident. Rivers cut
but a few feet below the surtace of
the lakes or seas into which they
empty. Shallows usually mark their

mouths. The present Niagara River

has excavated the rock to a depth of

only twenty-four feet at its débouch-
ure into the lake, but is much deepe
a short distance up stream. Burling-
ton Bay and Dundas Marsh are the
remains of an ancient river, now
choked with clays and gravels. Wells
sunk at Hamilton city show that a
channel was excavated in the solid
rock for at least 250 feet below the
present surface of the lake. Such a
prodigious cut could only be made
when the lake waters were at a much
lower level. Similar sub-lacustrine
watercourses are found near Port
Dalhousie, Rochester and Cleveland.
All point to a former lake (or river’
level much below the present one.

Although measurably true of the
ocean, one cannot apply the famous
lines of Byron to our fresh-water
sea :—

‘* Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow,
Such as Creation’s dgwn beheld, thou rollest
now.

In the current language of to-day,
the lakes, like all else terrestrial, have
been subjected to the processes of
evolution. Lake Ontario was born,
has grown to maturity, and is now in
the gradual decline of old age.

Three theories, as to her origin, may
be stated. Each has its warm defend-
ers. Some see, in the hollow of the
lake, a valley, formed by the crump-

332

ling of the earth’s crust. Down this
valley meandered an ancient river,
until its mouth was dammed, and its

narrow water-course became a mill--

pond of huge dimensions. The shal-
lows of the St. Lawrence are pointed
out as the uplift of the river bottom
that changed a stream into a lake.
The theory recalls the Indian legend
concerning the origin of Lake Superior.
The great Manitou, angry at his wife,
is said to have hurled armfuls of rocks
into the St. Mary River, then flowing
from Thunder Bay, and to have
created at once both the lake and the
sault.

In support of the view that the lake
occupies a synclinal trough, it is point-
ed out that, the rocks of the southern
and western shores apparently dip
north-westward beneath the waters of
the lake. The limestones from Belle-
ville to Kingston undoubtedly slope to
the east of south under the lake. Few
facts, however, can be stated in favor
of this theory, and many can be urged
against it. Lake Superior, of all the
great lakes, is alone held by many to
be due to foldings of the earth’s crust.

Another schoolof geologistssees only
a “long channel, with the adjacent
low lands covered by back water.”
These men offer no theory as to why
the prehistoric river took the course it
did, but are content with discovering
its ancient bed. They say nothing as
to the dip of the strata, but emphasize
the contours of the lake bottom.

The lake, considering its size, isa
broad, shallow basin, excavated out of
Medina shales on the south and west,
and bordered on the north by rocks of
the Hudson River, Utica and Trenton
periods, The western end of the lake
is more silted up than other parts, and
the average slope of about thirty feet
in a mile is about the same from both
shores. Farther east, the greater depths
are all towards the southern shore.
The deepest point—506 feet below
high tide in the St. Lawrence—lies
fifteen miles off shore, between Ro-
chester and Oswego. Drummond

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

states that “the line of deepest depres-
sion along the length of the lake is
also located about two-thirds of the
way across the lake towards the New
York side. South of Port Credit and
Toronto it takes the centre of the lake,
but after that, swerves towards the
southern side. Preserving a depth of
540 to 570 feet for over 60 miles, it
reaches the 600-foot line area, and
finally begins to shallow at about nine
miles off Oswego, where the depth is
576 feet.”

This depression is assumed by
Spencer, Claypole, Lesley and others,
to be the bed of an ancient river,
which originally discharged its waters
through the valleys of the Mohawk
and Hudson. Buried channels are
here found excavated in the rocks, and
nearly of sufficient depth to have
drained the lake. Probably local os-
cillations of the earth’s crust have
raised the old river bed in places, so
that its rocky bottom now stands
somewhat higher than that of the
lake.

Moreover, it is hardly probable that
Lake Ontario originally emptied into
the St. Lawrence valley. The shal-
lows at the eastern end of the lake
(unless the rocks there have since been
elevated some 500 feet more than the
lake bottom) would effectually prevent
the deep excavations to the west by
the old river. On the contrary, it is
more likely that, in pre-glacial times,
the Ottawa was the main branch of
the St. Lawrence, and that Leeds and
Grenville counties were drained into
the prehistoric Ontario River by Os-
wego through the Hudson to the sea.

Of course, this theory of a river
running from Oswego to New York,
and draining the present lake postu-
lates a greater elevation of the whole
section of the country. The bottom
of Lake Ontario is now 500 feet be-
low the level of the ocean, and so can-
not now be drained. Geologists are,
however, quite confident that New
York, Ontario and Quebec once stood
at a much higher level. That the

as Ce RE UY

Od

'S

rs
k
re
id
ve
iS-
ve
so
ds
he

iat
ito
al-
ke
en
the
ent
by
, is
nes,
1 of
and
nto
Os-
sea.
iver
ork,
stu-
hole
tom
, be-
can-
are,
New
tood
the

land has been rising and sinking dur-
ing the present century, has been de-
monstrated in several localities. Dr.
Bell has shown that thelandabout Hud-
son Bay is rising, and many authorities
believe the eastern coast of North Am-
erica to be slowly sinking. And, if
the land is not now constant, relative
to the ocean, why should it have been
so in the past? Indeed, it is not difti-
cult to prove by means of submerged
watercourses and elevated marine
shells, that oscillations have taken
place in past ages. The Saguenay

THE BIRTH OF LAKE ONTARIO. 333

dipping some 600 feet. The submar-
ine valley is easily traced across this
plain to the edge of the steep conti-
nental slope. The old river bed was
here excavated some 2,200 feet. As
such erosion could only have occurred
on land, we have indubitable evidence
of a former elevation of New York
city of at least 2,500 feet.

Marine shells, found on Montreal
Island at a height of 520 feet above
sea-level, point, on the contrary, to a
former depression. The land is thus
continually oscillating—water alone is

Torpor
pugdes
a
< ENG
~; T \¢
§ ~
| Z PR
a ree
as
ae A»
Coos

YH purty

Michigan J

A: te UE CL CC I
»

Be
Maumee*R ©

£ ‘a

Sandtsky R

f
rie "ry

~ Ci yahoga R [

Sn

THE ANCIENT DRAINA

River, for instance, has excavated a
channel in the rock some 800 feet, in
places, below the ocean level. As its
cliffs rise abruptly some 1,000-1,500
teet above this, there is every reason
for believing that the land there stood
at least 1,000 feet higher in former
times.

Again, the Hudson used to meet the
ocean, not at New York, but 105 miles
farther east. The sea-bed for that
distance is comparatively level, only

2 Ontario a

Pt Dalhousie

\

A
7

we
Hingston

Osnvego
_ Mohawk R

° oS : 6
i

a

aA eal
L Ontario

aN gel
Niagara Falis >

New York

Hudson R

ennsyl vania

\

GE BY THE HUDSON.

in stable equilibrium. The “ everlast-
ing hills” are not so constant as the
“ unstable water.”

The exact height of the Province of
Ontario in pre-glacial times, we have
no means of determining. It seems
certain, however, that the elevation
was quite sufficient to afford excellent
drainage for the deepest portions of
her lakes. The depression of the ba-
sin below the sea-level is thus no ob-
jection to the view that Lake Ontario

334

is due to the erosive power of a pre-
historic river.

Everyone is familiar with the man-
ner in which Niagara is wearing away
the rocks, and one can easily imagine
the time when the falls were roaring
where Brock’s monument now stands.
But still farther back in time, before
Erie was born, the labors of Spencer
have shown that that section of coun-
try was drained by a river. This pre-
glacial stream swept round Long Point
down an old channel now occupied by
the Grand River, and emptied into the
Ontario River through the Dundas
valley. Coursing on towards Oswego,
it received innumerable tributaries.
Although the basin of the future lake
was traversed by a great river, it was
not excavated by it. One by one the
raindrops fell on the whole area
drained by its affluents. Rills, rivu-
lets, creeks and streams, all carried
down their quota of material for the
great river to deposit in the sea. The
valleys of the Don and Humber, the
Moira and Napanee, have, in later
times, been excavated by the same
erosive power of water. The gorge of
Niagara and the cafions of Colorado
attest the mighty power of flowing
water. The Grand Caiion is over 300
miles long and from half a mile toa
mile and a quarter deep. This im-
mense quantity of rock has been car-
ried off by water. There is no need
to call in the aid of mythical forces
when the common fluviatile one is so
competent.

Yet a third school of geologists—
and an influential one—enamoured
with the glacial theory, drags it in to
explain the origin of the great lakes
That glaciers have excavated the ba-
sins of some lakes is probably true.
That moving ice has enlarged the old
river basin of Ontario is likewise pro-
bable. But that glaciers, moving over
a plain, should excavate solid rock to
a depth of 500 feet is hardly probable.
Indeed, observations on the erosive
power of existing glaciers are decided-
ly against such a theory. Moreover,

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

this hypothesis takes no notice of the
pre-glacial drainage, which must have
been in existence. The second theory
has this merit—that it recognizes the
erosive power of both water and ice.
And, so far as it assigns to each a due
proportion of power, does it deserve
our credence.

In Tertiary times the tributary
streams were not those of to-day. The
Niagara was not born. The Tona-
wanda and Chippewa creeks, or some
small stream from that neighborhood,
flowed for a short distance over the
future bed of the modern Niagara.
From the Whirlpool, this Tertiary
stream excavated a rocky bed through
the escarpment to St. David's. Its
course can be traced through Port
Dalhousie on its way to join the main
stream, near the centre of the present
lake.

The Dundasriver had its source in the

Maumee in southern Michigan. The
Sandusky and Cuyahoga, with channels
now well-filled, were tributary from
the south. A still larger stream, drain-
ing Western Ontario, joined the main
river near Long Point. This river
flowed down, what is now up, the val-
ley of the Grand as far as Seneca.
From there the waters ran by Ancas-
ter and Hamilton into the valley of
the future lake.
- Near Scarboro’, in the opinion of
Professor Spencer, a “ Laurentian
river,’ draining the region of the
future Lake Huron and Georgian Bay,
passed, on its way to the prehistoric
Ontario river. Other streams from
the north, probably as far east as
Brockville, emptied into the main
river before it reached Oswego.

At this period, Superior was drained
into Michigan and thence by the Wis-
consin, or Illinois, into the Mississippi.
The climate was then mild and equable.
Evergreen magnolias, figs and palms
probably flourished in Ontario. In-
stead of an average temperature of
45° F., the fossil plants would indicate
that the isothermal line of 60° F.
passed to the north of the present

THE BIRTH OF LAKE ONTARIO. 335

lake. A camel of this period has left
his remains in Missouri, and it is not
unlikely that his relatives quenched
their thirst in the prehistoric Ontario
river.

But a change came. The temper-
ate climate was succeeded by one of
cold and moisture. Snow “fell in such
quantities that the summer sun could
not melt it. From being a paradise,
the Province became a barren wilder-
ness—destitute of all but ice. From
the Laurentian Hills to the north,
then much higher than now, glaciers
descended on all sides. The New
England States, New York, Ohio, and
west and north, the country was cov-
ered with ice, as Greenland is to-day.
With that resistless power, still seen
in the glaciers of the Alps, the ice was
ever pressing downwards. With a
depth of several thousand feet over the
Province of Ontario, the glacier ex-
erted immense power on the rocks be-
neath. Boulders were torn off and
used as emery dust to polish the rocky
floor. The débris was piled in the
river valleys, and far to the south a
line of boulders was left to mark the
old ice front. The old Ontario river,
the Dundas and Laurentian streams,
were filled to the brink. The only
possible drainage was over the height
of land by tributaries of the Ohio.

Then followed a period of warmth.
The ice melted and streams ran anew.
But the old channels were filled up:
new ones had to be excavated in the
débris. Fora time the outlets were
damned by ice in the Mohawk valley,
and the waters accumulated between
the front of the retreating glacier and
the highlands to the south of the pre-
sent lakes. At first ponds were formed
in the old valleys, but, as the glacier
withdrew, these expanded into lakes.
Finally, the section of country now
occupied by the southernend of Huron,
Erie and Ontario, became one immense
sheet of water. The natural outlet by
the Hudson being still blocked by a
glacier from the Adirondacks, the

waters were held ata high level. Then
were formed those many beaches we
recognize around the shores of On-
tario. Finally, drainage was estab-
lished by the Wabash valley, when
the waters became sufficiently high.
Lake Ontario had then reached matu-
rity. Her grandeur was then at its
height. Succeeding history is but a
record of falls. The glacier melted
back from the Mohawk valley, and
the surplus waters rapidly disappeared.
The lake would soon have been en-
tirely drained had not the whole land
sunk during the presence of the ice.
Only to a smali extent could the pent-
up waters now escape through the Hud-
son valley. During a resting period a
new beach was formed.

About this time the level of Ontario
sank below that of the Niagara escarp-
ment at Queenston, and Erie and On-
tario were sundered. The accumulat-
ing waters in Erie found their way
over the precipice at Queenston, and
began their wonderful excavation of
the Niagara gorge.

Then came the withdrawal of the
ice from the St. Lawrence valley, and
a new channel was opened for the
waters of Ontario. Rapid drainage
ensued for a time, and Ontario began
to assume her present contours. How
long ago one can hardly say. The
Niagara began to flow at Queenston
7,000 to 10,000 years ago, and probab-
ly not long before the St. Lawrence
valley was freed from ice.

Lake Ontario is now in her old age.
Little over one-third of her former
depth remains. The tendency of all
lakes is to wear away the barriers that
contain them. In old, undisturbed
regions, like . the southern United
States, few lakes arefound. The hard,
granite rocks of the upper St. Law-
rence will, of course, long resist the
erosive action of water. Still, the
ultimate destiny of Lake Ontario is
that of an inlet of the ozean--a second
Mediterranean sea.

OUR FORESTS IN DANGER.

BY E. J, TOKER.

THaT Canada is a land of forests is a
belief that is very deeply rooted. This
is natural, for old Canada was chiefly
woodland, and the settlers, whether
from France or from the British
Islands, were pictured, truly enough,
as hewing out their farms and their
homes from the dense growth of prim-
eval pine or maple, beech, oak, walnut
orspruce. Now, however, this concep-
tion must be largely modified for two
reasons. In the first place, much of
the newer Canada, far from being
forest-clad, consists largely of vast
treeless plains, sparsely wooded at
intervals with inferior timbers. Be-
sides this, even in the older provinces,
the forests have proved not to be inex-
haustible, as was formerly supposed,
and they are fast disappearing. Even
in Ontario, in regions not long ago
unbroken woodland. the denudation
has been carried so far, that looking
from an elevation the country appears
less timbered than the landscape
viewed from an English hilltop. The
lumbermen have to go further and
further back in order to obtain logs
for their mills, and recognize that new
“timber limits” are becoming scarce.
The “ inexhaustible forest ” idea is no
longer tenable.

Thoughtful men have pointed out
the danger—have called attention to
the inevitable results of a continuance
in such improvident courses. Unfor-
tunately, however, their warnings and
advice have made very’ little impres-
sion, and have had no practical effect.
It almost seems, indeed, as if the idea
of a boundless wealth of woodland—of
forests with exhaustless supplies of
timber—would survive the very for-
ests themselves,

It is high time that the hand of the
destroyer were stayed—that the ap-

peal, “ woodman spare that tree,” should
be no longer a mere song. It is still
more desirable that our surviving for-
ests, or large areas of them, should be
treated in accordance with that scien-
tific forestry which is not only con-
servative, but also reproductive. Un-
fortunately there are difficulties in the
way. The Canadian Government,
among its extensive crown lands,
has comparatively little forest, and
as a general rule the timber is not of
the best quality. The woodlands also
are so situated as to be subject to im-
perious demands for local consumption,
so that they can hardly be spared to
serve as permanent forest. Very
wisely, parks, as in the case of the
Algonquin Park, have been reserved
to keep a part of our public domain in
a state of nature, but unfortunately
these tracts cannot be called forests.
Much is also being done by the Canad-
ian authorities to encourage and facili-
tate planting on our great plains; the
experimental farms—both central and
local—rearing and distributing large
quantities of young trees of kinds that
it is thought may be most likely to be
successful. This is of very great
utility, as leading to the formation of
plantations and windbreaks giving
much needed shelter, helping to modify
the climate, and promising at no very
distant period to augment the supply
ot firewood, fence rails, railway ties
and even building timber. But with
the comparatively small estates of our
country this is hardly likely to lead to
the establishment of forests, which in
any event would be a far slower and
more costly process than the preserva-
tion of those already in existence.

The Provinces are the great forest
owners of Canada. With them rests
the determination of the question

OUR FORESTS IN DANGER. 337

whether our land is to remain for ever
rich in forest wealth or is soon to
lament its vanished woodlands, and at
the same time deplore the evils that
always follow the denudation of a
country. Unhappily the Provincial
authorities represent that not yet ex-
tinct phase of popular sentiment which,
from the acquired habit or directly in-
herited feeling of early settlers in a
thickly timbered country, looks upon
a tree almost with an instinct ‘of de-
struction, as though the farm still had
to be hewed out from the forest. At
best they do not rise above that suc-
ceeding stage of public opinion leading
the mass of our population to look up-
on our forests as practically inexhaust-
ible, or carelessly to rest content with
the idea that our timber is at least so
abundant as to leave little cause for
the present generation to feel anxiety.
If better informed and more far -seeing
individuals raise a note of alarm it
falls upon unwilling ears, for the
Provincial authorities have, or think
they have, an interest in not heeding ;
and proverbially “none are so deaf as
those who won’t hear.” The stripping
of our forests affords an income all the
more welcome because our Provinces
have limited sources of revenue, while
there is a tendency to ever increasing
expenditure. Though the system is
improvident, it produces large sums
of ready money, whereas conservative
forestry would mean a less immediate,
if steadier and more lasting, income,
besides the initiative expenditure and
trouble. Even popular representative
government, with all its advantages,
has its disadv antages, like all else that
is human, and the “authorities s, with an
eye to the public balance sheet, con-
sider merely the present, and leave
posterity, as indeed has been cynically
admitted, to look out for itself.

It must however, in fairness, be ad-
mitted that the Provinces have taken
some sensible and more provident steps:
arbor-day planting, legislation to
check forest fires, the maintenance of
forest guards, are steps in the right

direction. But after all they are but
palliatives, small in proportion to the
evil. Ontario, indeed, has a forestry
official, and Mr. Phipps gives good
advice which is published only to be
utterly neglected, like that of the Hon.
H. G. Joly de Lotbiniere in Quebec.
Sir Oliver Mowat has acted wisely in
his recent establishment of a consider-
able forest reserve or park in this
province. It wil) be for the benefit of
the country if he continues this policy
and makes other important reserves of
woodland. There are large tracts in
Ontario which are well fitted for the
growth of timber and quite unsuitable
for arable land. In fact it is cruelty
to tempt agricultural settlers to take
up land in localities where, though
they may find a few fertile acres for a
farm, there cannot be a thickly settled
farming community, and where there
must consequently be a difficulty in
keeping up schools, churches, roads
and markets. Such districts should
be set apart for perpetual forest, and
Sir Oliver should make other reserves
with no sparing hand. The mere
postponement of the work of denuda-
tion would be a great gain and there
would be an opportunity afforded for
the adoption of a scientific forestry
when its advantages are recognized.
The period for which our forests
would last under the present wasteful
system, without conservation or repro-
duction, cannot he calculated with very
nice accuracy. One great difficulty is
to ascertain the extent of our forests
containing valuable timber. The Pro-
vincial Governments, which own the
great bulk of our remaining woodlands,
are very chary of giving such informa-
tion. Several years ago Mr. Meredith
in the Ontario Legislature strongly
urged the administration to appoint a
commission to “take stock” of the
assets of the province in the shape of
timbered lands, but after a prolonged
and animated debate Sir Oliver Mowat
and his colleagues flatly refused to
publish, or even to acquire, the desired
statistics. They preferred to deal in

338

vague generalities as to our “inexhaust-
ible timber” and “boundless forests.”
If they had consented they would have
been compelled to be less reckless, to
draw less present income at the ex-
pense of the future, and they could
not well have made the quarter of a
million of dollars that they secured
last year by the sale of timber limits.
So the people remain ignorant of the
extent of their forest wealth, of its
probable duration, or the seriousness of
the inroads made upon it.

There are, however, some data on
which to form an approximate idea of
the state of affairs. To take our hard-
wood forests over the greater part of
Ontario:—the walnut, cherry, white-
wood, and cotton wood have virtually
gone, the white ash, white oak, and
chestnut have nearly gone, and the
elm, bass, red oak and black ash are
fast going. ‘These woods are (or were)
all of commercial importance, and their
extinction or growing scarcity is well
known to those in the industries con-
cerned.

But it is our so-called “inexhaust-
ible pineries” that form our main
forest wealth and are of the greatest
importance. In this respect the evi-
dences of destruction are manifold.
Old mills are deserted or removed into
closer proximity to the receding for-
ests, while in the case of those main-
taining their ground, the logs do not
reach the saws till the second year
after they are cut, if even then, so great
is the distance now to be traversed.
And the end is within an appreciable
distance. A very conservative esti-
mate of the output ot our sawmills
amounts to a thousand million feet of
lumber each year, which would ex-
haust the pine on three well timbered
townships of the size of those now
commonly surveyed in Ontariv. Thus
if there are still thirty such townships
ten years would be their duration,
while if there are sixty such townships,
which can hardly be hoped, the term
would be extended to twenty years.
Our pine forests under the methods in

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

vogue are little likely to last for this
generation.

Not only is this reckless extirpation
permitted but it is even promoted by
the authorities. Many of the lumber-
men, while thus stripping the country,
are strong believers in forest conserva-
tion, and 1 regret the necessity which is
forced upon them. By the combined
payments of ground rents and stump-
age dues it is made the interest of the
lumberman to strip a limit and give it
up to save his rents as soon as he can,
to cut all that is marketable and to
take no pains to save from injury the
young growing trees. When agricul-
tural settlers are coming in, he has a
further inducement to speed, i in their
claims to the timber and in the danger
of fires spreading from their clearings.

There is another more recent and
serious evil in the treatment of our
pine forests. Formerly if there was
reckless destruction our own people got
the benefit of the wages for the manu-
facture. But now while Canadian mills
are being closed for want of saw logs,
enormous rafts of logs are being con-
veyed across the lakes for manufacture
in a foreign country. The millmen of
Michigan having run through their
“inexhaustible forests” are now sup-
plying their mills by denuding our
country of its fast vanishing pine tim-
ber. Such recklessness on the part of
our authorities is unaccountable, for
they could easily suppress this mis-
chievous practice. The Dominion gov-
ernment can only act by imposing an
export duty on the logs, an expedient
which has the disadvantage of inviting
a retaliatory import duty on our lum-
ber shipped to the United States. But
the Ontario government has the remedy
in its own hands, having only to in-
clude in the conditions of sale of limits
that the timber must be manufactured
in this country. Sir Oliver Mowat is
well aware of the feasibility of such a
stipulation, for he made this condition
in the last but one of his public sales
of timber berths, but since then he has
turned his back on this right pro-

a Ce

ry

—ane ak a bet ee oh oh oo ee wh ab

cedure. Of course he may have
secured larger bonuses by this foreign
competition, but at the cost of the loss
of wages by our industrial population,
and the more rapid extirpation of our
waning forests.

Canadian neglect of this important
matter of forest preservation is not so
surprising when we reflect that it is
honestly inherited—our mother coun-
try has lagged behind the rest of the

civilized nations in the science of
forestry. It is true that large forests
have survived, but this is chiefly

because they are crown property or
part of the wide estates of wealthy
landed proprietors, so from sheer con-
servatism they have been preserved.
Till recently any renewals, any im-
provements have been spasmodic and
unsystematic. In later times there has
been more regard to preservation, more
planting—some of the new plantations
being indeed of enormous extent—but
even in this there has been too much
of “the rule of thumb.” It is arbori-
culture rather than forest culture,
that scientific forestry which in
France, Germany and other countries
of Europe, secures perennial crops of
timber from perpetual,ever-reproduced
forests, as the skilled agriculturist
yearly crops his farm. Ten years ago
there was not a school of forestry i in
the British Islands, and when, about
the birthtime of our own Dominion, a
forest department was established in
India, it had to be stipulated that its
officers should go for their education
to the great schools of forestry flourish-
ing and doing most admirable work in
France and Germany. Many of the
earlier officers were foreigners, and for
some years the great body of the In-
dian foresters acquired their profes-
sional knowledge at Nancy in France.
Since then an efficient school of
forestry has been established at Coop-
er’s Hill, near Windsor, but it has
chiefly been devoted to the education
of foresters for the Indian service,
though others are admitted. One sig-
nificant fact, as indicating the stage

OUR FORESTS IN DANGER.

339

attained by forestry in Britain, is that
in their second year the students are
taken for some months to France or
Germany that they may have a prac-
tical opportunity of seeing forests sub-
mitted to really scientific treatment.
The mother country is now awake to
the value, the necessity of science in
forestr y-

India, of all lands under the British
crown, has been the foremost in
forestry. Its magnificent teak forests,
like our pineries, were thought and
said to be inexhaustible. The discov-
ery that many of them had been ex-
hausted and that the others were
threatened with extinction—that con-
servation and, in many cases, repro-
duction were urgently necessary—
largely conduced to the establishment
of the forestry department, which is a
most important branch of the public
service in India. In Australasia and
South Africa, also, the necessity for
the preservation and reproduction of
the forests has for some time been
recognized,and several of these colonies
have forestry departments with skilled
otticers. Canada, being in this respect
on a par with the United States, lags
behind nearly all the rest of the civil-
iz2d world.

Why should this progressive young
Dominionin this one matter of forest con-
servation be content totake a back ward
place. In the practical application of
science, we are not inclined to think
that we are behind the age as com-
pared even with France and Germany,
yet we let little Switzerland, Denmark,
and Roumania, which we regard as a
new accession to civilized states, and
Spain, which welook uponas retrograde
rather than progressive, outstrip us in
this, for they all have schools of scien-
tific forestry and trained officers to
cultivate their forests, while we have
none. Is it because we think our
forests inexhaustible ? Let us consider
the teak forests of India and ponder
the lesson. Let us note the facts of
our dwindling forests, visible to all who
will open their eyes. It is said that

our forests could not be made repro-
ductive, and at all events that their
reproduction would not pay. Whyso,
any more than in the European coun-
tries. It is said, too, that we cannot
guard against destructive forest fires.
Why so, it France and Germany can
preserve their timber unburnt ? Under
our present system, our forests are
made fire traps, but with proper fire-
breaks, with other due precautions and
with wise regulations properly enfore-
ed, our forests might be made as safe
as those of Europe.

The scientific forestry of the Europ-
ean continent is of course considerably
varied in practice to suit requirements
of the different localities, climates, soils,
species of timber trees, and other con-
ditions. There is, however, in all cases,
the same general aim, that is to produce
from the land in forest a constant,
steady crop of timber, soas to obtain a
continual supply of this necessary
material, and an adequate and peren-
nial cash income. These ends are
attained as much as possible by en-
couraging and regulating the natural
reproduction.- The system in a typical
forest may be easily described. In a
portion of the forest where the trees
are much of the same age and stage of
growth, that of maturity or the most
profitable time of cutting, there is a
general felling, with the exception that
at appropriate intervals there are left
standards for seed-bearing to cover the
whole area. These standards are left
for a time till the seedlings can do
without their shelter and are then fel-
led. If there are failures in spots,
planting is resorted to, and, when
necessary, thinning is practised. The

young trees grow up of the same age,
an‘l making similar progress till they

340 THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

in their turn reach maturity. Of
course the period for such a crop is
long as regards that particular section ;
but this inconvenience is obviated by
different divisions of the forest being
so treated as to arrive at maturity in
successive years, till the cycle is com-
pleted, and thus there may be an an-
nual crop from the forest, though
not from the same acres. It is easy
to understand that this type may be
imperfectly attained or may be modi-
fied to suit varying circumstances.

This system, it may be remarked, is
by no means confined to hardwood
timber. In France, and still more in
Germany, the forests thus treated
largely consist of pine and other coni-
ferous trees. There is no reason why
this method should not be successfully
applied by a scientific forester to our
Canadian forests.

What is first needed—before it is
too late——which wil! soon be the ease,
is that large forest reserves should be
set apart. Then under trained officers
a scientific system of forest culture, of
preservation, reproduction and market-
ing, in due time should be estab-
lished,

What can easily be effected now,
would year by year become more
difficult, more costly, and more tedious.
Continued persistence in improvidence
would at no very distant time see our
forests impoverished till there would
be insufficient timber even for our own
use, And with our departed forests
we would find, as has been the experi-
ence of many other countries, our
streams drying up, our crops diminish-
ing, andour whole country deterior-
ating,

Canada should take care for her
forests before it is too late.

—_e
=

—™ Thaw PTF sw eh 89 oS OO YO

mee

¥

oe

THE GREATEST DRAMA.

BY HON. J. W. LONGLEY, ATTORNEY-GENERAL OF NOVA SCOTIA.

THE fulness of the dramatic is realized
in the experience of one single human
life, however humble and however
prosaic its sphere. For several thou-
sand years the imagination of man has
been creating its images and painting
its hopes. All that fancy could conceive
has been thrown upon the canvas,
graven itself in stone, and flashed up-
on the pages of song and story. The
beatings of the heart have all been
laid bare, and the great themes which
in all ages and among all peoples have
touched the heart—love, hate, pride,
ambition, sympathy, crime and death
—have been dealt with by genius in
every form, and the result is a mass
of literature and a world of intelli-
gence. But all the wealth of poetry
and all the sublimest strains of senti-
ment could not touch the simple
record of one poor human life, if all
that it had thought and felt, and all
the plants it had nurtured and grown
could only be brought to light.

There are tremendous differences in
human life. One has large capacities,
another small; one has large opportu-
nities, another a narrow sphere ; one
has a great career, another a humble
lot; one has a brilliant imagination,
another is dull-witted ; one has keen
sensibilities, another a leaden stupid-
ity ; one, by surroundings and aids,
has reached the perfection of mental
and moral culture, another lies like a
neglected weed, into whose brain only
a few stray rays have penetrated.
And yet, with all, when the drama of
life is written, the distinctions are not
very great. If one could gather to-
gether the thoughts, aims, hopes, fears,
hates and agonies of the dullest life,
what a drama would be there! How

Shakespeare’s weird genius, which has
pictured the dark villanies of Iago, the

fierce jealousy of Othello, the cruel
rapacity of a Richard, the ecstatic love
and devotion of a Romeo and Juliet,
would seem tame beside that !

For a little, then, in this quiet spot,
where no sound disturbs, where no
voice distracts, let us review the drama
of this life of ours, which, by the aid
of memory, is still so vividly before us.
Though past middle life, and recogniz-
ing that the years which remain will
quickly glide away, and that life itself
hangs upon a thread which may snap
at any moment, and we drop into the
great unknown, we still cherish all
aims which have filled life so far, and
look forward to a thousand designs as
fully as if the scene would never
change and the curtain never ring
down. Weare living along with all
the occupations and all the engage-
ments of life, quite unconscious of the
denoument, or only looking to it as a
vague and half unreal affair. And
yet, perchance, when the roseate lines
have been clouded by the mists of dis-
appointment, sorrow or misfortune, we
sit down to look it all over—the past,
the present and—ah, me !—the future,
and then we catch a glimpse of the
drama—the great and terrible drama
of a life.

First, and most vivid of all, comes
the first conscious memories of child-
hood. Out of the dark depths of in-
fantile unconsciousness at last, some
day, there dawns the first light of con-
sciousness, and images take shape and
fix themselves upon the memory.
Then, as life opens, come the vague
dreams of childhood. Life looks, then,
so long. Forty years, sixty years,
seventy years—when can such an im-
mense space be bridged ? These dreams
vary according to the instincts and
characteristics of the dreamer. Some-

342

times the idea! picture of life takes
the shape of ease and luxury, which
the future, ever bright and rosy, is
to bring. The ambitious youth sees
glory and greatness before him. He
in whom avarice has a leading place
pictures wealth, lands and gold. The
girl sees love and beauty, princes and
courtiers and palaces and admiration.
I cannot depict the dreams of all
youth, but at the age of five, six and
seven, I recall vividly, more vividly
than the incidents of last week, how,
wandering in the fields alone, I had
the pictures of my career clearly mark-
ed out in my mind. Not a doubt
crossed my thought as to the achieve-
ment of all these. No dark practical
look at the difficulties or impossibilities
came to cloud a vision all bright be-
cause beaming with the warm and
glowing fancies of ardent youth. The
range of life seemed so great, the years
would be so many and so long, and the
opportunities so great, that no cark-
ing doubt was permitted to throw its
dark shadow over the picture. I was
myself a great chieftain among men,
marching on from one grand achieve-
ment to another, commanding multi-
tudes, exacting homage and told of in
history. Fame and glory were the
absorbing yearning of life, and all hap-
pened according to the burning wish.
Now I am past forty. The larger
half is gone; the remainder that lies
before me, though the full allotted span
be reached, will fly away so quickly
that the reckoning can scarce be kept,
and there is hardly time to count the
milestones. Yet, into those forty con-
scious years, barren as they may have
been of great results, far as the reality
has fallen behind the gem-decked vis-
ions of early youth, what dramas have
been crowded, as seen from within.
Without, it is merely the record of a
common life, filling its share of space
in the annals of the race: one traveller
jostling his way through the crowd,
leaving some behind and occasionally
passed in the race. But within, who
has known the burning ambitions, the

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

unspeakable yearnings, the wild hopes,
the bitter disappointments, the mo-
ments of gloom, the dark secrets of
hate, the gathering storms of passion
and revenge, the insidious promptings
to crime, which had to be cast aside
with all the power of virtue; the
struggle between the triumphs of the
hour which were so easy but so fatal
on the morrow, and the patient wait-
ing for the slow development of the
right, the sacrifice of the pleasures of
to-day to reap the richer harvests of
the future. Then, again, the solemn
reflections upon the relation the in-
eradicable ego bore to the universe
about it; what the destiny, not of a
life—that seemed smal]l—but of a soul:
what could be done now that would
affect, for weal or woe, this undying
something which seemed to constitute
the all-important self? Behold, the
drama—nay, the very tragedy of a
life !

The process of life is so strange, so
moulded by necessity, and so much the
result of development, that it is for-
tunate the reality does not appear un-
til the play is about over. Tell the
dreaming child that his visions are all
moonshine, that he shall presently tind
himself confronted by a cold world,
from which nothing is got except by
force and by eternal conflict; that in the
race are men swifter, and in the battle
are men stouter, and that when the
record comes to be made up it is simply
the story of a man who has jogged
along with the others for a short time
and then lain down to rest—and who
would face the struggle? But it all
follows so naturally. The dreaming
boy is soon at school, and there he be-
gins to learn that something has to be
done, sometime or other, to keep him
in existence, and that youth is the
time to prepare for the emergency.
By contact and competition with his
fellows he finds that there is always a
better than he can do. And yet he
has only reached the initial stage.
Hope still shines like a fadeless star.
Soon the tiresome and fruitless days

me rn

ee ete lt et ORO CO” ©

3

& oo7?g

— Ss © O @

Vo O DO

- Ore &

@.- | OY @

pS Oe oe DDO wy

THE GREATEST DRAMA.

of apprenticeship will be over. Educa-
tion completed, profession gained—
then will come the realization. Man-
fully he buckles down to the struggle.
While yet on the brink of his career,
love creeps in and takes masterful
possession of his heart. A woman's
lot is linked with his. With the be-
ginning of real life, commenced so
earnestly, so hopefully, so ardently,
comes marriage, and the chivalrous
sense that others are dependent upon
his care. The struggle meanwhile is
going on bravely. Then comes the
first born, and all this suggests of love,
pride and protecting care. In this
way fly the years. Forty is reached,
and, then, with wisdom comes reflec-
tion. Only thirty years at most re-
main. What is there, after all, in this
thing we call human life? The best
of it is past. Where is the realization
of the fair dreams? Has there been
success, as the world goes? What
will it all amount to in the end? Has
there been failure and the humdrum
of the struggle for actual existence ?
What can you do? Drag along in the
same old rut until the end? Gone
are the dreams. And yet, withal, the
romance remains. Hope still sheds its
mild ray. It is not possible to stop
in the race. The duties of the hour
press. There is no escape from the
round of duty. We jog along hoping
that brighter days will come. We
have not the time, the courage, nor the
philosophy to look the whole situation
squarely in the face. Forty passes to
fifty. Quickly enough sixty is reached,
then seventy. Then comes the close.
Success is pleasant, but the greatest
triumphs of ambition seem small when
preparing to leave the scene for the
unknown, and though the reckoning
gives failure as the result, the hand of
destiny is upon you and there is noth-
ing to do but to turn back to the
dreams of youth and mockingly com-
pare the results. What can be done?
The tale is told. What remains ? The
awful drama of life. That remains,
and nothing can erase it. There is

343

memory, and this preserves, in green
freshness, the hopes and fears, the
struggles, the triumphs, the disappoint-
ments, the loves, the hates, the good
impulses, the evil instincts, the touches
of sorrow, the pangs of despair, the
sufferings and agonies that none have
known, which seemed to eat away the
heart, and the blessed faith, that, when
the way seemed dark and hopeless,
pointed to another and better existence,
where the failures of this life should
give way to the full fruition of immor-
tal hope. Ah, yes; whatever may be
the disappointments of life, however
all its fancied glories may disappear as
the real unfolds, the great drama of
life itself remains and is woven into
every thought, feeling and reflection.

The problem of life, as thus far con-
sidered, is the philosophical one. For-
tunately the most of us never stop to
go so deeply into the bubble mystery.
‘The mass of mankind is borne along on
the tide and stays not to scan the re-
ality, nor to peer seriously into the
future. But there is another side.
The only clue to the broader purposes
of life is found in its relations to the
eternal life beyond. In this light
worldly successes are of secondary mo-
ment. Length of days js not to be
taken into the account. The practice
of virtue and the performance of duty,
as it confronts us, are the sole tests of
success. Ee life short or be it long;
be the objects aimed at achieved or
left undone, the eyes can close and the
light of life can fade away complacent-
ly, if we can look upon this span of
temporal existence as simply a field for
the development of a character which
shall be fitted to fulfil its real destiny
in a sphere eternal in its scope, and
where nothing is fruitless and no aims
fail of achievement.

If this be the real meaning of life,
why should any struggle? In the
profound words of Shakespeare:

Who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

The oppressor’s wrong,
tumely,

The pangs of despiséd love, the law’s delay,

the proud man’s con-

344

The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes ?
* * * * * Who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life?

The great dramatic poet has said it
was lecause of “the dread of some-
thing after death—the undiscovered
country from whose bourn no travel-
ler returns.” Is there not something
beside this to be considered? The
“dread of something after death ”
might induce men to struggle along
prolonging life and shuddering to enter
beyond the “ bourn from whence no
traveller returns.” But why, if there
be nothing intrinsically in human life,
should men make the great struggle
for the prizes of this world? Easy,
indeed, would it be for most of us to
drift pleasantly through the term of
our existence, having enough to eat,
to drink and to wear. But that is
not the actual condition of the world
at this moment. If we look at the
human race from a vantage ground
of observation, we see men engaged
in a desperate conflict for wealth,
power, social distinction and fame.
The hot ambition of life is not alone
seen in youth. The hoary veteran of
sixty or seventy, who, if he were wise
at all, must have felt a thousand
times that life is but a span, and that
the drop scene is not far off, still
strains every nerve to further schemes
which cannot date beyond his death-
bed. He has a speculation in which
his sole interest is fortune. He is
in the political whirl, and he clings
to office as if all depended upon it, or
he struggles to gain it with every
power he possesses. Rest, ease, com-
fort, home, friends are forgotten in
the surging conflict for preferment.
Is it for the cause he struggles? Per-
haps; but who shall say how much of
the purely personal enters into the
account—how far the goal of those
tireless efforts is the plaudits of an ad-
miring multitude who acclaim his
triumph? The events of every day
reveal the undying weakness of human
nature. An old gentleman has been

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

fairly successful in life, and gathered
about him sufficient of the world’s

goods to provide in comfort for himself

and those dependent on his care. He
is surrounded by his family and has
all the enjoyments of home. The
dreams of youth have all long since
vanished, and he knows that but a few
years at most remain, while the un-
certainties of lile make it likely that
he may pass away at any moment.
Some day a delegation of his neighbors
tender him a nomination for a high
office. The acceptance of the trust
means labor, toil and anxiety to attain
the office, and the assumption of its
duties means unceasing worry and per-

lexing care. But how rarely is the
call declined ? Home, rest, reflection,
the moments for lifting the soul to the
plane of that tremendous transition to
another life are all put aside, and the
gray hairs, and, perchance, enfeebled
form, are found hastening from point
to point, urging, struggling, surging
toward victory. Why? Perhaps it
is the call to Cincinnatus to save the
country. Perhaps this is the mere
phantom—the pleasant illusion to
tickle the imagination of the multi-
tude. At bottom, the chief motive
will be found to be the restless and
undying impulses of pride and ambi-
tion. These have not their roots in a
cold and cynical philosophy, but in the
unconscious instincts, implanted by a
benign providence to lift men out of
themselves and out of the horrors
which would tlow from a too minute
introspection, and push them or lure
them along into the engrossing sphere
of action, where one has not time to
stop and take a straight look into the
future. Shakespeare’s philosophy will
have to be revised. It is not alone the
“dread of something after death” that
contents a world of busy men to “ far-
dels bear, and grunt and sweat under
a weary life.” It is the inborn im-
pulses of pride, lighted and guided by
the bright phantoms of hope that lure
men into the sphere of action, where
the voice of reflection is too feeble to

hered
orld’s

mself

He
d has
The
since
1 few
- un-
that
nent.
nbors
high
trust
ttain
tf its
| per-
s the
tion,
o the
on to
1 the
sbled
0int
ging
Ds it
> the
mere
1 to
ulti-
»tive
and
mbi-
ina
1 the
by a
ut of
rrors
nute
lure
here
e to
» the
will
2 the
that
' far-
nder
im-
d by
lure
here
le to

THE GREATEST DRAMA.

be heard amid the din, and where no
time is left for working out the prob-
lems of abstract philosophy.

It is, indeed, one of the marvels of
human nature that the spirit of pride
and ambition should continue to flour-
ish and hold sway even among the
wisest and most thoughtful of men.
The preacher who has devoted his life
to the subject of religion, and has for
a generation pointed out the vanities
of life and held up the future as the
only goal which should engage men’s
thought ; who has taught the folly of
human pride, the emptiness of worldly
achievement, and striven to fasten the
attention of men upon the supreme
idea of eternity, accepts a call to a
larger, wealthier and more important
church, by an instinet chiefly worldly,
which cycles of pious reflection are
powerless to withstand. And yet, in
truth, there are a thousand incidents
in the life of every intelligent person
which emphasize the paltry character
of earthly achievement. Every day
we see our associates passing away.
One by one our friends lie down to
rest with aims unattained and pur-
poses unfulfilled. And still we wed
ourselves inexorably to the things of
time, the troubles of the world, all
heedless of the lessons about us, Is it
not strange, and yet, wgthal, for the
world’s comfort, well ?

In the restless drama of life there
are times, while the scenes are shifting,
for reflection, and these are the only
hope for the survival of the spiritual,
as opposed to the material, in human
life. Who that has stood by the bed-
side of some dying friend, and wit-
nessed the ebbing away of the life-tide,
seen the mute appeal of those glassy
eyes from which the light is fading,
and heard the groan of agony with
which he gave up his last breath, has
not felt all the ambition of life pass
out of him, and solemnly concluded
that, though all we ever dreamed or
hoped for were achieved, it would
count for little when the death drops
were gathering upon the aching brow,

345

and the closing eye should look its
last upon the things of time? What
shall we do then? What thought in-
tervenes to prevent this merciless phil-
osophy from destroying the whole fab-
ric of human effort, and leaving a
world without incentive to action, mo-
tive for energy or impulse to achieve-
ment? If this life be all, of little mo-
ment is it that the few hundred mil-
lions of beings who are aimlessly bat-
tling in a purposeless struggle upon this
round globe, should be annihilated or
resolved back into their native dust.
To solve the problem it is not neces-
sary to mumble any creed, nor accept
the authority of any book or teacher.
Profound reflection upon this tremen-
dous theme will bring the clear revela-
tion that no heart can give its assent
to any such dreary limit. Those great
impulses of the soul—faith, hope, love
—triumphant over the baser and less
worthy passions, take hold of the con-
scious self with such overwhelming
force and power, that it would give
the lie to every instinct, every mental
conception upon which judgment is
formed, to say that these were fora
day and after “life’s fitful fever” is
ended, they should die with the mere
framework which formed their taber-
nacle. All that constitutes the majes-
ty of a soul, all that prompts to heroic
action, all that inspires to lofty aims,
all that sheds beauty and sweetness
upon human exertion, is found in a
sense of relationship to another unseen
and profoundly mysterious life, in
which the higher impulses can have a
sphere commensurate with the intense
yearnings which could find no ade-
quate fruition within the compass of
this life. The subtle judgments of the
brain and the changeless promptings
of the soul, alike establish the convic-
tion that the supreme condition of that
other life is virtue, because in this it
is the only condition of permanent hap-
piness, or, indeed, of permanence itself.
Whatever is not right, just, and true,
passes away. All triumphs except

those of virtue are but mockery, Shal-

346

low, indeed, is the philosopher that
does not perceive that nothing but vir-
tue survives the test of even the span
of this life.

Here, then, is the problem of human
life. Discharge faithfully, honestly,
and cheerfully the duties which the
incidents of life impose, develop all
the faculties in the assurance that they,
at least, are immortal. Aim at success
in life as leading to the goal of a high-
er life. Purity of heart, honesty of
purpose, nobility of aim, if pursued
devotedly, insure success, though, per-
chance, not wealth, honor or fame.
The guerdon of virtue is the robe of
immortality. Let the struggle go on.
A world without pride and ambition,
without thought for the concerns of

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

this life, would produce men devoid of
moral fibre and be a poor training
school for a higher sphere. Do what
we will, clouds will hang over a human
life. Along the path will be found
obstacles. Hopes which seemed so
bright will be blasted, and we look
upon the shattered idols with bitter-
ness of spirit. The future will often
be forgotten in the absorbing interests
of the present. But, amid the thou-
sand touching phases of human life,
there remains the overshadowing
thought of a great beyond, melting the
pride, tempering the joys, soothing the
sorrows and healing the wounds which
mark the changing scenes of life’s
pathetic drama.

of
ing
nat
an
ind

so
ok
er-
ten
sts
ou-
ife,
ing
the
the
ich
fe’ Ss

AT THE MOUTH OF THE

GRAND.

BY THOMAS L. M. TIPTON.

LET us idle away one of these long,
sunny, summer days on the banks of
a Canadian water-way, whose pictur-
esque charms are not so well known
as they should be. There is very little
scenery in the Province of Ontario
which can surpass in quiet, rural
beauty that found at many points on
the Grand River, from its source away
up beyond Elora, down to where it
empties—a broad, deep, slow stream—
into Lake Erie. We will linger for a
while beside it, starting from Duna-
ville, and following its course down to
its mouth at Port Maitland, a distance
of about tive miles.

passing glance. It can boast of water-
works, electric lights and natural gas.
Many of the townspeople use this gas
for fuel in preference to wood or coal.
There are several wells in and near
the town, and they yield a fair supply.

The Grand River washes the little
town upon its southern side, anda
very long bridge and longer embank-
ment cross the stream at this point.
We will walk over them to the oppo-
site shore.

This is the bridge ;
is the dam;
ment.

These works were constructed, whea

beneath our feet
beyond it the embank-

LONG BRIDGE AND DAM AT DUNNVILLE.

The little town that we are leaving,
with its shaded streets, its villas and
cottages surrounded by well-kept gar-
dens, its quaint fishing suburb, its
mills and its storehouses, is a place
well worth something more than a

B

the present century was young, for
the purpose of turning the waters of
the river through a feeder into the
Welland Canal. That canal drew its
whole supply of water from this river,
until it was lowered to Lake Erie

348

level a few years ago, since which
time it has been fed from the lake.

Stand on this bridge for a few min-
utes and look away down the stream
below you. It can be seen for more
than a mile, flowing through the wide
marshes and low grounds on either
side of it. Then a sharp bend and a
point of higher land hide it from our
view.

How gloriously the waters sparkle
in the morning sunlight! How in-
tensely white seems the sail of that
boat, heading up stream for Dunnville !
She is probably bringing a cargo of
fresh fish home from the lake, to be
sent by railway to Buffalo.

To-day these waters are calm and
peaceful as a standing pool, but in
spring and fall they sometimes go
rushing over the dam with a mighty
roar, bubbling and boiling down below

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

Fair and beautiful does it appear in
the soft light of this summer morning.
The cattle are wandering over it,
cropping the fresh, juicy grass. A few
of them are gathered in a picturesque
group, close to those low-hanging wil-
lows by the water’s edge. Some of
them stand out dark and distinct
against the sun, while others are half
hidden by the bushy trees.

I admit that it is a great flat piece
of reeds, and flags, and wild grass, a
slushy mixture of land and water,
with no tree for the eye to rest on,
except those few scraggy willows, and
two small elms. But do not say that
it lacks the charm of variety. Look
at the thousand different lines which
the light of early day sheds over it.
See how the dark, rich green of the
reeds contrasts with the lighter shades
of the grass, and with the gleaming

THE GRAND RIVER ABOVE THE DAM.

there, till the river for some distance
is one sheet of foam.

We have passed the bridge now,
and are on the embankment—that
very, very long barrier which reaches
across to the opposite shore. On the
upper side it is protected by a wall of
timber and a bank of stones; on the
Jower by a row of willows, whose roots
twine in among the clay and gravel
which compose it, and help to resist
the action of the waters.

Away below us lies the marsh, a
“ level waste,” extending from the foot
of the embankment to the mouth of
Sulphur Creek, which flows into the
river about a mile and a half away.

waters of the channels which cross it
here and there and connect the river
with the creek.

Bright and pleasant as it seems,
there are times when it presents a
very different appearance. In spring,
freshets have swollen the stream across
the entire flats, and, far down as the
eye can reach, is one vast sheet of rush-
ing, surging water. Nothing else is to
be seen except the tops of the low
trees peeping above the flood; not a
speck of dry land is visible.

To properly understand and appre-
ciate the beauties of the marsh, you
should visit it at every season. You
should look on it in the golden au-

jeg SEA pitas ee _ceermneeeeeee BS

—__——_—____— _ =<»

tur
che
dee
bla
ins
to.
of

per
fin
hat
tuc
for
wei

a fe
you
in ¢
see
the
whi
blo:
her
the
of i
wit
her
mo}
any

Jun
flee
brid
hol
bob
of f
dan
hoo!
peri
fair]
of o
and
puft

afte
whit
and
ghos
as tl
then
phar
or Ss
pain

————

eterna

asa

came cneeenns >

a

AT THE MOUTH

tumn, when the waving reeds have
changed their green dress for one of
deep russet brown, when vast flocks of
blackbirds go forth from it at morning
in search of food, and return at evening
to their nests. See! there are a few
of them there now, flitting about and
perching on the tallest stalks they can
find. They build their nests and
hatch their young down in the soli-
tude of this wild marsh, and leave it
for a warmer climate when the cold
weather approaches.

In the fall of the year this place is
a favorite resort for ducks, too. Then
you may hear the guns of the hunters
in every nook and corner of it, and
see men popping in and out among
the tall reeds in their little tiny skifts,
which look as if a puff of wind would
blow them over. You should come
here then, and in winter also, when in
the severer spells it is one great field
of ice and snow, with brown tufts of
withered grasses and flags dotting it
here and there. I think that it is
more truly picturesque then than at
any other season,

A few weeks earlier than now in
June would have seen the sturgeon
fleet on the lower river just below the
bridge—a sight worth seeing. To be-
hold the fishermen in their rude punts,
bobbing up and down on the stream
of foaming water which leaps over the
dam, and throwing out their baited
hooks to entice the big fish, is an ex-
perience worth having. It becomes
fairly exciting when they catch hold
of one of these monsters of the deep,
and, after a fierce struggle, drag him,
puffing and blowing, into the boat.

Sometimes they remain out hours
after sunset ; then the long streak of
white foam resting oh the dark
and gloomy river, and the almost
ghostly appearance of the fisher-boats,
as they dance on it for an instant and
then vanish into the shadows, form a
phantom-like scene such as Rembrandt
or Salvator Rosa would have loved to
paint.

Now turn round and look away up

OF THE GRAND. 349
stream! What a noble piece of water
it is—a small lake, in fact, over half
a mile in width as far as we can see
it, and that is over three miles. The
river, in its natural state, was not half
as wide, but the building of the dam
and embankment had the effect of
overflowing the flats for some miles
up, and thousands of acres, which were
formerly covered with tall, spreading
trees, have been for many years under
water. At some points the dead
trunks and branches of these trees still
remain standing. They remind us of
those weird pictures of barren and
blasted forests, which we meet with in
the writings of some of the old roman-
cers and poets. But, for the most
part, wind and storm and decay have
done their work with these giants of
the wood, and nothing but the stumps
can now be seen.

It is good to rest here for awhile,
taking no heed of the flight of time.
Calm, clear and bright the beautiful
river lies before us, not a wave, nota
ripple, to break the repose of its sur-
face. Like some vast mirror, it re-
flects every object on its banks—the
green trees, the white mills and store-
houses, the dwellings, the barns, the
bridges—we see them all down in those
mystic depths, plain and distinet both
in form and color.

Ruskin somewhere says that, under
certain conditions, there is as much to
be seen in the water as above it. We
have only to look on that scene before
us to feel the truth of his remark.

“ How came that long double row
of broken piles there?” you ask,—
“there on the further side of the
stream, which seems to run up past
that inlet ?”

This is all that remains of the old
original tow-path. Long before steam-
boats or locomotives were known in
these parts, great teams of horses used
to toil along it, dragging scows and

barges schooners behind them.
For mi: ,vars the Grand River was

the principal outlet for the whole sur-
rounding country. Immense rafts of

350

oak and pine and elm were then
brought down it, to go by way of the
Welland Canal and the St. Lawrence
to Quebec—for the forests of this re-
region were once rich in timber. One
of these rafts, with its shanties built
on it, and its crew of French lumber-
men, was a sight to gladden the eyes.
How the merry fellows would run
round on it, lively as crickets, singing

MILL AND WASTE WEIR ON SULPHUR CREEK.

one of their native songs, as they la-
bored with their pike-poles to push it
along.

After the introduction of steam-
boats, the light traffic between these
parts and Buffalo was carried on, for
the greater part, by a few side-wheel-
ers, built so as to navigate shallow
waters.

There are many in this neighbor-
hood who can well remember when
the old Haperiment and Dover used
to come in here by way of Port Mait-
land and the feeder, laden with cargoes
of freight and passengers from Uncle
Sam’s dominions. Then they would
steam on up the river as far as Brant-
ford, escaping the rapids by means of
locks and short canals. Almost any
evening during the season of ‘naviga-
tion, one might stand on -this em-
bankment and see steamers come
puffing down, each with her tow of
loaded scows and schooners behind
her.

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

All this is over now; the Grand
River is a deserted highway; the
locks and dams in the upper section
have been carried away by the floods,
or suffered to rot down, and it would
be difficult for anything much larger
than a rowboat to pass Cayuga—sel-
dom, indeed, does a lake craft of any
kind go even that far. The grain is
earried chiefly by the railways, and
the trade in gyp-
sum seems to have
ceased. The forests,
too, have beenstrip-
ped of their best
timber, and noth-
ingis ever rafted
down here, except
a few small saw-
logs and poles.

But, though the
palmy days of the
noble stream may
be ended, time has
not robbed it of its
picturesque beauty:
it has heightened
and increased,rath-
er than diminished it. Like some old
veteran, whose battles are over and
whose bustling days are past, it has
now that quiet charm which repose
and decay alone can give. The mer-
chants and the mariners, who once
trafficked on its waters, have aband-
oned it to seek employment and wealth
amid busier scenes. But, though they
have deserted it, it still has its lovers
and admirers. The artist now delights
to haunt its banks and transfer some
of its numberless bits of enchanting
scenery to his canvas or his paper.
This neighborhood is fast becoming a
favorite resort for landscape painters.
Some members of the Buffalo Sketch
Club spent the greater part of last
summer here, and many of the pictures
exhibited at their annual opening were
taken by them between Dunnville
and Port Maitland. This summer
they are here again, busily sketch-
ing.

You shake your head and look grave.

we alli

AT THE MOUTH

I know what your thoughts are. Yes,
Hawthorne did say that when a coun-
try or a region becomes an object of
interest to painters and poets, it may
be safely considered to be in the last
stages of decay. I admit the truth of
the observation ; it will hold good as
far as the river is concerned; but if
you were to see the little town over
there on a market day, when the
streets are crowded with wagons load-
ed with farmers’ produce, you would
not think that it was in any danger of
going down. A good farming country
lies all around. Heavy grain crops
are grown in the townships west of
the river, and now that the low, sandy
lands of Moulton are well drained, they
produce roots and fruits in great abun-
dance.

The fine prospect on both sides
makes this embankment a most enjoy-
able place for a stroll. On summer
evenings, especially on Sundays, after
church, half of the population of Dunn-
ville may be seen here. But there are
times when nobody will venture to
cross it unless compelled. When the
late fall winds are blowing a hurricane
down the river, the waves will dash
against it and break over it in showers
of spray that would drench one to the
skin in a few minutes. At the time
of the great tlood in 1869, the waters
burst through and made a gap of over
200 feet long. Then the lower stories
of half the houses in Dunnville were
flooded, and the people rowed about
the streets in boats for several days.
The low, flat parts of Moulton town-
ship were also overflowed for several
miles back from the river. These
overwhelming floods are now things of
the past. The village fathers of Dunn-
ville have raised the road along the
river so as to form a level break w: ater,
and an additional waste-weir has been
built. The embankment, too, has been
made higher and stronger.

Here, at the end of the embank-
ment, is the first of the three great
waste-weirs which carry off the sur-
plus water and are the chief safeguards

OF THE

GRAND. 35

when there is danger of being flooded.’
A pleasant, airy, picturesque spot it is
On the upper side is the wide river,
and look across it and you will get a
fine view of the front street of Dunn-
ville, with the tops of the higher builJ-
ings and the towers of the churches.
On the lower side, the swift current
sweeps round into Sulphur Creek, and
when the valves of the weir are open
and the water is rushing through
them, it becomes so rapid and strong
that it would be rather difficult to
stem it. When, like the “sweet Af-
ton,” it flows gently along, the lake
fish delight to come up and play here.
On each side of the channel you may
see one of the quaint-looking dip-nets
used in this region, with its long bal-
ance pole and its upright rest. It
hangs over the water ready for a dip
whenever indications are favorable.
On the opposite side, close by the tall
white grist mill, a couple of tishermen
are sitting down enjoying a smoke
under the thick willows that ove erhang
the little mill-race. In a few minutes
they will probably let down the net
and make a catch. The fish caught
here are, most of them, fine eating,
especially the bass, both black and
white. These fishermen are profes-
sionals, who pay the Government for
their licenses and follow the occupa-
tion for profit. They own seijnes as
well as dip-nets, and if you come at
the right time you may see them put-
ting off in their scow-built punts and
then throwing out their nets and
dragging them to shore, heavy, per-
haps, with every kind of fish that is to
be found in these waters—pike, pick-
eral, bass, suckers, mullet, and, it may
be, maskinonge—the finest and most
delicious of all, so epicures say. At
certain seasons of the year it is unlaw-
ful to catch some of these fish. Should
one of the prohibited happen to get
into the net at these times, the fisher-
men, of course, make a point of throw-
ing it back into the water, more espec-
ially if the inspector should chance to
be looking on.

THE

Ww
ut

In addition to the professionals,
there are a number of amateurs who
love to frequent the waste-weirs and
other points where the fish congregate.
They are mostly old gentlemen, retired
tradesmen, officials, and farmers, who
are spending the evening of life in
Dunnville, and who, in these long, hot
summer days, find their chief recrea-
tion and employment in the sport
which Isaac Walton so loved. These
gentlemen use nothing but the hook
and line, and these they can ply to
their heart’s content without let or
hindrance.

The summer months, July and Aug-
ust especially, generally bring a num-
ber of visitors to enjoy the sport of
trawling. Boats and guides are always
to be hired, and one may see them
starting off up stream and down with
spoon- hook and line and lunch-basket,
if he chances to be abroad in the early
morning hours.

It is time that we were on our way
to Port Maitland. The little islands
and the old canal, just above where we

OLD CHURCH AT PORT MAITLAND.

stand, are worth devoting a few hours
to, especially when the inlets are cov-
ered with beautiful white pond lillies
which seem to Hoat on the surface of
the water. They make a fine contrast
with the dark green leaves that sur-
round them.

CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

You can glance at the second waste-
weir as we cross the Sulphur Creek
bridge. Like the first, it is a solid,
substantial stone structure, built at
great expense on a firm foundation of
piles and puddled clay.

Leaving the quiet village of Byng,
we take the river road, and are soon
on the summit of a little hill from
which we get another fine view of
Dunnville. As we look across the
marsh, the town seems to lie on the
very edge of it. From this point the
eye can also take in the long bridge and
embankment, the lower river, and the
creek with its branches dividing the
green expanse into fairy- -looking is-
lands, while the beams of the morning
sun falling upon the scene, give it the
charm of life and freshness.

A mile or two more and we are past
the great bend and in sight of the sand
dunes of Port Maitland—high mounds
which look in the distance like a
chain of tiny mountains. They shut
out the lake from our view, but the
tall masts of a schooner lying in the
harbor can beplain-
ly seen towering
above them.

We pass thriv-
ing-looking home-
steads, rich pas-
tures and fields of
winter wheat,
which promise fair
for a good yield at
harvest, should
nothing happen to
blight or injure
them.

The land on this
side of the river
is comparatively
high, but on the
other side the great
marshes skirt the lagoon-like stream
down to its mouth, and stretch away
south and east to the banks of the
feeder.

At last we come to where the sand-
hills block the way, and the road
branches off. Let us mount the steep

|

ne

AT THE MOUTH

bank, although it is rather hard climb-
ing, for the sand is so loose that our
feet sink into it at every step. From
the summit of these mounds we have
a delightful view. The lake, the piers,
the light-house, the long line of sand-
hills, sweeping round the crescent bay
down to Mohawk Point, burst at once
upon our sight. Far as the eye can
reach, the great inland sea lies before
us, clear and peaceful. The spirit of
repose seems to have shed its influence
over it, and to have lulled it into
slumber as deep and as sweet as the
sleep of a child. Away out we catch
sight of the white sails of vessels, and
the smoke of a steamboat. Here all
is quiet; there is nothing to disturb
the pervading tranquillity; not a sound
is to be heard save the murmur of the
waters as they ripple on the sand.

Our surroundings “ breathe immor-
tality” and invite us to meditation.
While we are in this mood, it will be
good for us to linger for awhile in the
little churchyard, which lies yonder,
just at the upper end of this chain of
hillocks or dunes. You can see the
tower of the church through the trees.
A wild, solitary spot it is, lying amid
the sands, with the vast lake in front
of it, and an atmosphere of mingled
sadness and sweetness pervading it.
The grass has grown high and rank in
places, bramble has cropped up, the
sand has drifted in and buried por-
tions of the fence, and of some of the
gravestones, but there is a charm in
this secluded God’s acre, which the
more pretentious cemeteries of great
cities do not often possess. The spirit
of the place awakens tender feelings,
and inclines us to deep and solemn
thought. There is nothing to break
the spell which it casts over heart and
mind. No crowd of sightseers, no ele-
gant equipages sweeping by, no gay
flower-gardens and inappropriate de-
corations to turn our attention from
the things that are afar off to the
pomps and vanities of the worid.

The little wooden church is Angli-
ean, and is old, as age is reckoned in

OF THE GRAND. 353
this country. Some of these tomb-
stones have been standing for more
than half a century. As you walk
round, and read and ponder, you will
observe that a number of old officers
lie buried here. The lake shore for
several miles west of us was originally
settled by military and naval officers
from England, who came out here to
form a little colony, and live the free,
independent, pleasant life of country
gentlemen. Some of them laid out
much of their means in improving
their farms and in building substantial
dwellings for themselves, but they
found, generally, that farming in Can-
ada was anything but profitable in-
those times, except for practical, hard-
working men, able and willing to en-
dure privation and rough fare. As
most of them had regular incomes,
they managed to live comfortably, but
their descendants, with a few excep-
tions, have lett the neighborhood to
seek more congenial employment in
our towns and cities.

You wonder why the grave we are
approaching is made of such extra-
ordinary length,—as if it were that of
a giant. Beneath that mound of earth
rest the remains of a band of gallant
soldiers, who belonged to the famous
Twenty-Third, or Welsh Fusiliers, and
who were drowned near this shore in
1849. They were on their way from
Montreal to London, and were going
by steamboat as far as Port Stanley.
Their vessel was run into by another
and sunk a little way out from this
place. Assistant Surgeon Grantham,
some non-commissioned officers, and
more than forty men perished, and their
remains were interred in this church-
yard, as may be seen by the inscrip-
tions on the headstones. The accident
happened in the night, and it is said
that one of the vessels did not have
her lights properly displayed. Be that
as it may, the poor fellows went
down, and

‘*They laid them by the pleasant shore,
And in the hearing of the wave.”

354 THE
There have been many shipwrecks
in this bay, when the storms of au-
tumn raged, and the lake vessels were
making the last trips of the season.

How invitingly cool seems the Lake
in these sultry days! No wonder so
many Dunnvillites have built sum-
mer cottages on its shores.

We will walk along the beach to
the village. We can see the tops of
the houses over the sand-hills.

You would like to know something
about the origin of these sand-hills.
Well, I confess I cannot tell you how
they came here; I am not in the least
scientific. Probably they were blown

up by the winds and are the work of
the gales of centuries. I think that
they go on increasing in size from year
to year, as fresh sand is washed up
from the lake.

This must be a scorching hot place
when the summer sun is pouring down
his rays on it, especially when there
is no breeze off the lake, for there is
very little shade here; nothing ap-
pears to grow on these dunes, except
a few,scrubby, stunted hemlocks, which
creep along the ground and look like
vines rather than trees. But notwith-
standing this, there is a peculiar fas-
cination about the scene. The glare

CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

and heat of the sands at noon-day
make the cool lake look still more wel-
come and refreshing, and when the
evening yellow falls upon them, they
seem actually to take on the long lines
of golden light and the deep-hued mass-
es of shadow.

Artists always love low sandy shores
like this. Some of the most attractive
pictures in our galleries are taken from
just such scenes. This neighborhood
has received its share of attention.
Mr. George Merritt Clarke, a talented
member ot the Buffalo Sketch Club,
was here for several weeks last sum-
mer, sketching among these sands and

IN PORT MAITLAND.

the old tumble-down houses of the
village, which is now in the days of
its decline, but not, I trust, of its fall.

The good people of Port Maitland,
some of thern at least, wondered what
attraction the ‘place could have for
an artist and couid not understand
how the picture of an old frame
building not worth five dollars could
fetch almost as many hundreds, when
put up for sale.

Here is the mouth of the river, and
the capacious harbor, one of the very
largest and best on Lake Erie. A fleet
could ride at anchor in safety under
those piers. Away across, on the other

PMN IE ia ae

po
in]

M

AT THE MOUTH

shore of the river is the lake entrance
to the Feeder. The lock is about a
quarter of a mile up it.

Round about us lie the houses of
the Port, and, if decay and dinginess
are signs of the picturesque, this | place
must “surely be an Artist’s Paradise,
for more ‘dilapidated- looking affairs
than some of these old structures are,
could scarcely be seen anywhere. The
light-keeper’s house and the neat hotel
are modern, respectable and prosaic,
but the rest of the buildings are an-
tique, unpresentable, and dear to the
poet and the painter’s heart.

See, that worn-out frame cottage.
It stands there on the sand-bank, but
every house in Port Maitland rests on
a similar foundation. It is a village
built on sand.

During the war of 1812, and for
many years after, Port Maitland was
a naval station, perhaps the most im-
portant on the lake. Some of the old
inhabitants here, can remember H.M.S
Minos, and her commander Lieutenant
Hatch. She was stationed here away
back in the forties, and was withdrawn
when Great Britain and the United
States withdrew ail war-vessels from
the lakes,

The Port was a busy piace formerly,
but its trade, like that of tle Grand
River, has fallen off.

Steamers here took in their supply
of firewood, and great piles of it were
to be seen on the docks. The harbor
was filled with vessels all summer long,
steamboats wooding up, schooners

which had put in tor supplies or for

shelter, little fleets of Grand River
scows and barges waiting till the lake

OF THE GRAND.

arr
IID

was calm enough for the tugs to tow
them across to Buffalo. Great rafts of
timber often lay here for days. Dur-
ing the time of the American civil
war, a good deal of round pine was
brought in to go through the canal,
immense sticks, some of them over one
hundred feet in length and three or
four in diameter. At that time the
Southern ports were blockaded and
ship yards had to get their masts and
spars from Northern forests.

The only industry which seems now
to flourish in the place is fishing ; this
is carried on to a considerable extent.
The great reels for nets which are seen
on the sands in front of some of the
houses show what is the occupation
of the inhabitants. Some of these
fishermen ply their trade along the
beach with seines; others have gill
nets in the lake. Any one who stays
here for a few weeks will have an op-
portunity of seeing their little steam-
boat come in at early morning with
its cargo of fish, and go out at evening
when they set their nets. If one is
fond of fishing either with hook or
trawling line, he can find no better
place for a summer outing: there is
the river to sport on and near by is
the cool lake. Accommodation is eas-
ily obtained ; no more comfortable and
pleasant country tavern can be found
than the cheerful-looking little inn,
with its good table, airy rooms, and
aspect of neatness, so that a stay by
the spot where the broad, slow river,
melts into the breezy bosom of Lake
Erie, lacks not in the comforts of life
found in other summer resorts.

ISMS IN THE SGHOOLS.

BY JOHN S&S.

“WaHatT a melancholy notion is that
which has to represent all men, in all
countries and times, except our own,
as having spent their life in blind
condemnable error—mere lost Pagans,
Scandinavians, Mahometans--only that
we might have the true ultimate know-
ledge! All generations of men were
lost and wrong, only that this present
little section of a generation might be
saved and right. They all marched
forward there, all generations since the
beginning of the world, like the Rus-
sian soldiers into the ditch of Sch weid-
nitz fort, only to fill up the ditch
with their dead bodies, that we might
march over and take the place. It is
an incredible hypothesis. Such incre-
dible hypothesis we have seen main-
tained with fierce emphasis, and this
or the other poor individual man, with
his sect of individual men, marching
as over the dead bodies of all men, to-
wards sure victory ; but when he, too,
with his hypothesis and ultimate infal-
lible credo, sank into the ditch and be-
came a dead body, what was to be said ?
Withal, it is an important fact in the
nature of man, that he tends to reckon
his own insight as final, and goes upon
it as such.” So said Thomas Carlyle
(the hero as priest), and mournfully
added: “He will always do it, I sup-
pose, in one or the other way.”

And yet one would think that by
this time Cromwell’s adjuration ad-
dressed to the General Assembly of the
Kirk of Scotland: “I beseech you, in
the bowels of Christ, think it possible
you may be mistaken,” would in some
small measure be commencing to take
effect even upon Scotchmen. Surely
the scantiest information as to the in-
tellectual and moral development of
the human race would teach any one
that not the blockheads only among

EWART, Q. C.

our ancestors, but the wise-heads as
well, have been hopelessly—I had al-
most said stupidly—wrong upon count-
less matters that appear to us to be as
simple as the addition of a couple of
units. But no; so far, Carlyle’s pro-
phecy, “He will always do it,” bids
fair to realize itself.

And the reason is not far to seek.
Toleration is based upon culture (of
which there is but scant crop), and
especially upon those parts of it in-
cluded under (1) wide-reading, that you
may know that the road to your own
opinion has been over many a nobler
thinker now stark in the Schweidnitz
ditch ; (2) experience, that you may
have seen your own most cherished
opinions go to the ditch ahead of
you. (“ The latter part of a wise man’s
life is taken up in curing the follies,
prejudices, and false opinions he had
contracted in the former,” said Swift) ;
and (3), a certain sympathetic and im-
aginative power, that you may patient-
ly investigate the foundations and
strength of opposing opinion, and be
able to appreciate its arguments, not
trom your own point of view, but from
that of your opponents. You must
come to the question as an enquirer
not with heady confidence, arrogantly
asserting infallibility and completed
investigation; but, on the contrary,
with open mind ready and willing to
re-examine your best beloved beliefs
in the light of that which may be urged
against them—a very rare frame of
mind. If the question be one upon
which you have no very fixed ideas,
the possibilities are that your mind
will receive its first (and last) impres-
sion from the first person you meet, be
it nurse or philosopher. But if it be
a question of politics or religion, and
you have arrived at the age of—say

a

=~ WS PV eo

ao & cre WY om i

—N

ae DO .~*

— » PP

—

e
e
d
y

;

puberty—what prospect is there for
the clearest truth, as against the stu-
pidest falsehood which may have
theretofore, in some way or other, got
into your head ?

I am not blaming you, although for
like offence you are constantly turn-
ing up your intellectual nose at other
people. I am not even saying that
you, in your individual list of beliefs,
have subscribed tu a single false one.
All that I am intending is to “ beseech
you, in the bowels of Christ, think it
possible that you may be mistaken ”—
in some small but specified one of these
beliefs, if you cannot admit as to two
of them ; it will do you good as a com-
mencement. You can look back over
the little history you know, and grant
that had other people doubted in any
smallest measure their inerrancy,oceans
of blood, and infinitudes of misery,
would have been spared; but for your-
self you see no lesson there, for were
they not all wrong, and is it not clear
that you are right ¢ Ah! there’s the
rub, you are right—be it a “ melan-
choly notion” or not, “all generations
of men were lost and wrong, only that
your _ section of a generation might

be saved and right.” ~ You and your
“ultimate infallible credo are not
bound for the ditch. I pray you, do
try and remember that all these poor
Schweidnitz fellows had likewise,every
one of them, seen a clear route across
the Pagan and Mahometan stupidi-
ties, but nevertheless were plainly, as
we now see it, every one of them,
ticketed for the ditch. Ave, and did
veritably go there, they and their hy-
potheses, and are now plainly not
right. And when you come to think
of it, why should you be infallible, and
all the ditch occupants, and perhaps a
large majority of those still outside of
it, be indubitably wrong? Tell me
that you have studied more deeply,
more ‘diligently, and with greater abil-
ity than they, and I shall ‘accept | your
answer. ‘Tell me merely that you
“know ” that you are rignt, and I shall
merely translate your “know” into

ISMS IN THE SCHOOLS. 357

“my father told me,” and wonder that
you did not know enough to do that
for yourself,

Will you let me tell you something.
Here is a fundamental and, you think,
easily solvable question, viz., that re-
lating to toleration of contrary opin-
ion, religious or other. Let me shortly
review it for you.

Plato prescribed thus for unbe-
lievers: ‘Let those who have been
made what they are only from want of
understanding, and not from malice

=>
or an evil nature, be placed by the

judge in the house of reformation, and

ordered to suffer imprisonment during
a period of not less than five years.
And in the meantime let them have no
intercourse with the other citizens, ex-
cept with members of the nocturnal
council, and with them let them con-
verse touching the improvement of
their souls’ health. And when the
time of their imprisonment has expir-
ed, if any of them be of sound mind,
let him be restored to sane company,
but if not, and if he be condemned a
second time, let him be punished with
death.” Plato was wrong.

Pagan Emperors (knowing that they
were right) persecuted and put to
death thousands of Christians, and
Christians did the same for Pagans in
proportion to their power. Pagans
and Christians were wrong.

Roman Catholics (knowing that
they were right) persecuted and put to
death thousands of Protestants; and
Protestants did the same thing for
Catholics in proportion to their power.
Said Canon Farrar ™: “The idea of
man’s universal rights, of universal
freedom and liberty of conscience, was
alien to the views of the whole ancient
world. Indeed it is of quite modern
introduction. It was not known even
in Christendom, not even in the Pro-
testant part of it, till the seventeenth
century.’ Catholics and Protestants,
including Culvin, Knoz, ete., ete., were
wrong.

Jowett’s Translation, IV. 221

(a) Laws, X., 909;

History of Free Thought, Note 15,

358 THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

Hobbes in 1658 said © : “ Christians,
or men of what religion soever, if they
tolerate not their king, whatsoever law
he maketh, though it be concerning
religion, do violate their faith, con-
trary to the divine law, both natural
and positive; nor is there any judge
of heresy among subjects, but their
own civil sovereign. For heresy is
nothing else but a private opinion
obstinately maintained, contrary to
the opinion which the public person,
that is to say, the representant of the
commonwealth, hath commended to be
taught. By which it is manifest, that
an opinion publicly appointed to he
taught cannot be heresy; nor the
sovereign princes that authorize them,
heretics. For heretics are none but
private men that stubbornly defend
some doctrine prohibited by their law-
ful sovereign.” Which heretics he
counselled, could they not comply with
the king’s requirement, to go off
courageously “to Christ by martyr-
dom,” and leave the land in peace.
Hobbes was wrong.

John Locke gained for himself much
renown by his noble plea for toleration,
and was, we think, much in advance
of the day when he wrote (1689) ; but
he makes this qualification : “Lastly,
those are not to be tolerated who
deny the Being of a God. Promises,
covenants and oaths which are the
bonds of human society can have no
hold upon an atheist. The taking
away of God, though but even in
thought, dissolves all. Besides also,
those that by their atheism undermine
and destroy all religion, can have no
pretence of religion whereupon to
challenge the privilege of a toleration.”
Locke was wrong.

Bishop Warburton in 1736 © lays
down in the strongest terms the
natural right of every man to worship
God according to his conscience, and
the criminality of every attempt on
the part of the State to interfere with
his religion. “ With religious errors,

(a) Leviathan, cap. 42.
(b) First Letter on Toleration, p, 31.

as such, the State has no concern” ;
and it may never restrain a religion
except when it produces grave “civil
mischiefs.” In asserting, however, that
“religion, or the care of the soul, is
not within the province of the magis-
trate, and that consequently matters
of doctrine and opinion are without
his jurisdiction, this must always be
understood, with the exception of the
three fundamental principles of natural
religion—the being of God, His provi-
dence over human affairs, and the
natural, essential difference of moral
good and evil. These doctrines it is
directly his office to cherish, protect
and propagate, and all oppugners of
them it is as much his right and duty
to restrain, as any the most flagrant
offenders against public peace.” And
the reason of this exception, he says,
is obvious : “ The magistrate concerns
himself with the maintenance of these
three fundamental articles, not as they
promote our future happiness, but our
present They are the very
foundation and bond of civil policy.
Without them oaths and covenants
and all the ties of meral obligation
upon which society is founded are
dissolved.” Warburton wus wrong.

Rousseau in 1761 drew up a civil
profession of faiths and prescribed
that: “If any one declines to accept
them, he ought to be exiled, not for
being impious, but for being unsoci-
able, incapable of sincere attachment
to the laws, or of sacrificing his life to
his duty. If any one, atter publicly
recognizing these dogmas, carried him-
self as if he did not believe them, then
let him be punished by death, for he
has committed the worst of crimes, he
has lied before the laws.” Rousseau
wus wrong.

Blackstone, the great English jurist,
in his commentaries (1755) wrote:
“ Doubtless the preservation of Christ-
ianity as a national religion is, ab-

stracted from the intrinsic truth, of

the utmost consequence to the civil

(c) Alliance of Church and State.
(d) Contract Social iv, viii, 203.

ms

i a in aa ee 2. tat ae ie ak ae eh Ee ie

state, which a single instance will
sufficiently demonstrate. The belief

in a future state of rewards and pun-
ishments, the entertaining just ideas
of the moral attributes of the supreme
Being, and a firm persuasion that He
superintends and will finally compen-

sate every action in human life (all
which are clearly revealed in the

doctrines, and forcibly inculcated
the precepts, of our Saviour Christ),
these are the grand foundations of all
judicial oaths which call God to wit-
ness the truth of those facts which
perhaps may be only known to Him
and the party attesting. All moral
evidence, therefore, all confidence in
human veracity, must be weakened by
irreligion and overborne by infidelity.
Wherefore, all affront to Christianity
or endeavors to depreciate its efficacy,
are deserving of human punishment.”
Blackstone was wrong.

Burke, in 1773, in a speech in the
House of Commons, alluding to the
argument that if non-conformity were
tolerated, atheism would gain protec-
tion under pretence of it, said: “If
this danger is to be apprehe ended, if
you are really fearful that Chri istianity
will indirectly sufter from this liberty,
you have my free consent: go directly
and by the ‘straight way and not by
a circuit; point your arms against
these men who do the mischief you
fear promoting; point your own arms
against men who by attack-
ing even the possibility of all revela-
tion, arraign all the dispensations of
Providence to man. These are the
wicked Dissenters you ought to fear ;
these are the people against whom you
ought to aim the shaft of the law ;
these are the men to whom, arrayed
in all the terrors of Government, I
would say : You shall not degrade us
into brutes. These men—these facti-
ous men, as the honorable gentleman
properly called them—are the just ob-
ject of ‘vengeance, not the conscienti-
ous Dissenter. Against these
1 would have the laws rise in all their
majesty of terrors to fulminate such

ISMS IN THE SCHOOLS.

wr

359

vain and impious wretches, and to
awe them into oo nce by the only
dread they can fear - believe. The
most horrid and oa blow that can
be offered to civil society is through
atheism. Do not promote diversity :
when you have it bear it; have as
many sorts of religions as you find in
your country: there is a reasonable
worship i in them all. The others—the
infidels or outlaws of the Constitution,
not of this country, but of the human
race—they are never, never to be sup-
ported, never to be tolerated. Under
the systematic attacks of these people,
I see some of the props of good Gov-
ernment already begin to fail—I see
the propagated principles which will
not leave to religion even a toleration.
0 hw Those who hold revelation
vive double assurance to their country.
Even the man who does not hold
revelation, yet who wishes that it
were proved to him, who observes a
pious silence with regard to it, such a
man, though not a Christian, is gov-
erned by religious principle. Let him
be tolerated in this country. Let it
be but a serious religion, natural or
revealed—take what you can get—
cherish, blow up the slightest spark,
By this proceeding you

form an alliance, offensive or defen-
sive, against those great ministers of
darkness in the world who are en-
deavoring to shake all the works of
God, established in order and beauty.
Perhaps I am carried too far, but it is
in the road which the honorable gentle-
man had let me. The honorable
gentleman would have us fight this
contederacy of the powers of darkness
with the single arm of the Church of
England. Strong as we are, we are
not yet equal to this. The cause of the
Church of England is included in that
of religion, not that of religion in the
Church of England.” Burke waswrong.
Paley writing in 1785 perceived
“no reason why men of different reli-
gious persuasions may not sit upon

(a) Principles of Moral and Political Philosophy, Bk. VL,
Cap. X.

360

the same bench, or fight in the same
ranks, as well as men of various or op-
posite opinions upon any controverted
topic of natural philosophy, history or

ethics. Every species of intolerance
which enjoins suppression and silence,
and every species of persecution which
enforces such injunctions, is adverse
to the progress of truth; forasmuch as
it causes that to be fixed by one set
of men, at one time, which is much
better, and with much more proba-
bility of success, left to the independ-
ent and progressive inquiry of sepa-
rate individuals. Truth results from
discussion and from controversy ; is
investigated by the labors and re-
searches of private persons. Whatever,
therefore, prohibits these, obstructs
that industry and that liberty which
it is the common interest of mankind
to promote. In religion, as in other
subjects, truth, if left to itself, will
almost always obtain the ascendancy.”
But after so much good sense he adds:
“Under the idea of religious tolera-
tion, I include the toleration of all
books of serious argumentation ; but I
deem it no infringement of religious
liberty to restrain the circulation of
ridicule, invective and mockery upon
religious subjects ; because this species
of writing applies only to the passions,
weakens the judgment, and contami-
nates the imagination of its readers;
has no tendency whatever to assist
either the investigation or the impres-
sion of truth; on “the contrary, whilst
it stays not to distinguish between the
authority of different religions, it de-
stroys alike the influence of all.”
Paley was wrong. He underrated, or
rather misrated altogether, the func-
tion of ridicule in argument.

This is somewhat of a formidable
list of names to collect together for
the mere purpose of condemning their
opinions without a word of argument.
Plato, typical of everybody down to
the seventeenth century (Pagans, Pro-
testants and Catholics), Hobbes, Locke,
Warburton, Rousseau (Voltaire may

be added), Blackstone, Burke, Paley

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

—all more or less wrong, and you
and I right? Yes, you say, most
certainly we are—and from Chelsea
we may still hear reverberating, “ He
will always do it, I suppose.”

And we, the infallibles, have our
Opinions, too, upon the question of free
trade versus protection, no doubt; al-
though perhaps we are old enough to
have « changed them at the same time
that our leaders did. Prior to 1876
(say) we were all free traders or at
least revenue-tariff men ; about that
time perhaps we became eager protee-
tionists, and so voted in 1878; and we
could then have demonstrated to any
one not absolutely imbecile that there
was no doubt in the world that we
were right—could we not distinguish
between successful free trade in Eng-
land, and triumphant protection in the
United States? But now, oh! now,
we, and thousands such as we, having
lost our prophet, clamorously acclaim
a new found apostle who promises to
lead us out of the Egyptian night in
which we have been groping and
show us our land flowing with milk
and honey. Stop a moment here.
Have you ever contemptuously and in
real earnest called yourself a fool for
having believed otherwise than you
now do on this or any other subject ?
If so, perhaps, you had ground for your
charge (although not for your lack of
politeness) ; and possibly you may not
have yet much improved in wis-
dom! (This is a consideration which
should give you a little pause before
throwing stones at others.) On the
other hand, if you have never so char-
acterized yourself, should you not
treat with the same leniency and re-

' spect those who continue to hold the

opinions which you have abandoned.
There is a possibility that they have
been always right. There is no such
possibility for you! Your insight into
your own mistakes, as well as into
those of others. you reckon as final,
and you go upon it as such !—* He
will always do it I suppose in one or
the other way.”

REYNE td tree

RELI

n= |

D

mtr &* wee oo Oe SA,

we er rl

It is worth while paying attention
to the way in which you came by
some of your opinions. Looking about
you, you seem to observe that as a
rule the son inherits the opinions of
his father, in much the same fashion
as he does his real estate. In fact,
family opinions seem frequently to be
appurtenant to the family possession ;
as the lawyers would say, they run
with the land. Lord A’s estate pro-
duces oak trees, and liberal politics;
while Lord B’s produces beech trees,
and tory politics. Neither of the
noble Lords had anything more to do
with the formation of their opinions
than with the grow
both came to them ready made. And
now when they assert that trees and
opinions are clearly their own, I agree;
and in each case for exactly the same
reason—because they quite lawfully
inherited both. This is all very trite,
no doubt, but what, perhaps, is not so
very trite, is that it applies to your-
self, and that you do not think that it
does. (I am taking one chance out of
a thousand.) You see that it applies
to everybody else: but everybody else
sees that it applies to you. If you do
hold the opinions of your father, may
it not be because his trees were oaks ?
and that your boasted insight is limit-
ed to the ascertainment of what kind
of ideas you were born with ?

Your opinion then (be it live oak
or dead basswood merely) is that Plato,
and the rest, were undubitably wrong.
Not stupid, you say, but under the in-
fluence of superstition or other prop-
erly discarded rag-tag; dominated to
some extent by their uncultivated en-
vironment, grovelling in the darkness
out of which we have arisen to such
effulgent light. Yes, my friend, with-
out having read a word of these men,
you condemn them ; but what are you
going to say about all those of your
contemporaries who disagree with you
—effulgent light notwithstanding ;
people who believe that all society is
hooked and buttoned together by relig-
ion, and that the button-loppers must

ISMS IN THE SCHOOLS. 361

J

be stopped that society may not re-
turn to original nudity and barbarism.
Ido not wish to argue these points
with you, I merely want to ask you,
What do you say about all these con-
temporaries? That you are right and
they are wrong, and that you can
prove it ? That may be so, but they
tell me precisely the same thing, name-
ly, that they are right and you wrong,
and that it is the easiest thing in the
world to demonstrate it.

Now, no one objects to your holding
your opinions as well as your trees; to
the advocacy of your opinions, and to
the supplanting of all other trees with
oaks, if you can convince the owners
of them that the thing ought to
be done. The point I want to come
at is this, that your opinions are not
entitled to one whit greater deference
or respect (even should they be concur-
red in by vast majorities) than are the
opinions of others. Frankly and un-
reservedly will you go with me that
far? You believe that all opinions
not harmful to society should be toler-
ated. A great many other people say,

‘yes, that is true, but atheistical opin-
ions are harmful and should therefore
not be tolerated.” You reply that
“ atheistical opinions are not harmful.”
This is not a question of principle but
a question of fact—Are atheistical
opinions harmful to society ?—and it
is a fact that we cannot agree about ;
several centuries of endeavoring to do
so having proved that matter to us.
What then is to be done? Perhaps
we can get some help by a technical
statement of the argument :—Opinions
harmful to society ought to be sup-
pressed : some people (A) believe athe-
istical opinions to be harmful; while
others (B) believe that they are not ;
therefore the some people (A) ought
to have their way, and such opinions
ought to be suppressed. You see clear-
ly that this conclusion is wrong; but
how does it help you to yours? If the
conclusion is not right that the some
people (A) must have their way, and
the opinions be suppressed ; neither is

362

the other conclusion right, that the
others (B) must have their way and
the opinions be tolerated. If we can-
not decide whether the opinions are
harmful or innocent, (A) has as much
right to have his way as (B), has he
not? Let me suggest a solution, for
there is no impasse here. (A) wants
the opinions of (B) suppressed ; he has
no right to interfere with other people’s
opinions, unless they are harmful to
society ; on him therefore lies the onus
of proof that the opinions that he
seeks to suppress are harmful. If he
cannot prove this (and in the supposed
case he cannot) nothing is done; and
the decision is not that (B) is right,
but that (A) has not made a case for
interference with him. The normal
condition is liberty. Let him who de-
sires to circumscribe it prove his right.
If he cannot, then he has no title to in-
terfere.

But why elaborate all this? No
one now-a-days thinks of interfering
with opinions. Think you so, my
friend? So far I have been endeavor-
ing to get you to agree with me upon
general principles, “before proceeding
to apply them, and | fancy that I have
found little difficulty ; but now we are
going to separate. You see very little
or no intolerance in the world. On
the contrary, I see as much there as
ever there was, and more, for the popu-
lation is rapidly increasing. I do not
mean that we are burning or jailing
one another just now—that was the
form merely which intolerance in
rougher times assumed. But I do say
that the incapacity to appreciate and
sympathetically understand an opin-
ion contrary to our own, is as rare to-
day as ever in the world before. I
know that education is more wide-
spread, but in my opinion intolerance
commences with knowledge (as disease
with life), and succumbs to nothing
but much culture, which is far from
being widespread ; and the cocks are
as sure now as they ever were. The
“important fact in the nature of man,
that he tends to reckon his own in-

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

sight as tinal, and goes upon it as such,”
has, by many centuries of culture, to
be eradicated out of human nature,
before its offspring, intolerance and
persecution, will leave the world in
peace. No doubt asperities have been
rubbed down and the more dreaded
penalties for non-contormity to major-
ity-opinion probably for ever ended ;
but the old intolerant spirit is still
alive, manifesting itself, and dom-
inating as far it can, in strict conform-
ity with the softened manners of the
times. Principal Caven ([ think it
was) said that “It should be made an
unpleasant thing for a man to call
himself an infidel”; and he is but
frankly stating the tactics of modern
inquisitors. With social penalties, if
not with hanging; with sarcasm and
contempt, if not with thumb-screw
and boots, the bigot still insists upon
conformity to his plans and specifica-
tions; and to the best of his ability
limits and controls the :iberty and the
opinions of others. Cocksure and its
brood “ with fierce emphasis” are still
vigorously draguoning the world.

“My purpose in this article, however,
is not to call attention to this pigmy
war, which must be left to burn itself
out (after various centuries more have
passed), but to enter a caveat against
its incursions into a new realm, against
the irruption of intolerance in our
public schools. Men seeing that it is
becoming more and more difficult to
force their opinions upon adults, are
now turning their attention to the
children, where their conquest will be
easy if their access be permitted. I
want to see impregnable walls opposed
to the incursion of all proselytizers
intu the schools.

And, as a basis for my argument, I
have been endeavoring to win assent
to these few propositions: (1) That
human thought is, even at the best of
it, upon social and religious questions,
far from being infallible; (2) that
other people of equal intelligence, who
honestly differ with us, are as likely
to be right as we are ; (3) that relig

A
ii

288

a aes Sa” a hl ae Ok ke |

1e
iS
ll

LO

~ PR ALES ORE AES. Sa

ISMS IN THE SCHOOLS. 363

ious and irreligious opinion is in the
category of the debatable (many on
both sides say it is not, which to my
mind proves that it is;) (4) that the
true policy with reference to all such
questions is that of perfect liberty, for
the onus of proving the harmfulness
of opposing opinion cannot be discharg-
ed. Now let me apply these princi-
ples to the schools.

Perhaps you, reader, have been urg-
ing that certain things (apart from
mere secular education) should, or
should not, be taught in the schools,
because, as you say, these things are
right, or are wrong, although other
people do not agree in your opinion of
them. Perhaps you are an Imperial
Federationist, and want to instil Im-
perial ideas into the minds of the
young. Mr. Parkin has written a book
for use in the schools, emphasizing his
hobby. You agree with him and
want his book introduced into all the
schools. In other words, you want to
insist that the children of people who
do not agree with you are to imbibe
your opinions and not those of their
parents. You would send these child-
ren home to tell their parents that
they are acting dishonorably in advo-
cating a rupture of the British con-
nection, and that (as Principal Grant
has it) the suggestion of union with
the United States “should crimson
the faces of people who do not pretend
to be fishy-blooded”—that is, the faces
of their parents. I know that you
are, no doubt, right, #% do not tell me
that; but again I would remind you
that men whose opinions are entitled
to as much weight as yours do not
think so, and I beseech you “to think
it possible you may be mistaken.” I
ask for liberty.

Or perhaps you believe in militar-
ism and the inculcation of a warlike
spirit, and you insist upon flags and
drills and painted muskets, so that
the fighting propensities (you call
them the capacities for defence) may
be developed. Other good people
abhor the notion of war, and dread the

Cc

effect upon their boys of these appeals
to their combativeness. You would
have the boys tell their peace-loving
fathers that they are old women, and
that a fighter is the highest type of an
English gentleman. You are right of
course, and they wrong; but again I
plead for liberty.

Or perhaps you believe that educa-
tion is a vicious thing, unaccompanied
by religion, and that ‘the State is turn-
ing out “lever scoundrels” instead
of worthy citizens. You insist upon
religious instruction in all the schools.
You quote all our old authorities, a
great many of our new ones, and piles
of most convincing statistics, to prove
that society is held together by moral-
ity, and that there can be no morality
without religion; and, so far from
being shocked with the idea of setting
child against parent, you would pray
that “it might be the means, under
Providence, of,” &c., &e. Beyond, per-
adventure, your “little section of
generation ” has arrived at the “ ulti-
mate infallible credo,” but, once more,
let me remind you that many people,
your equals in intelligence, believe
that the religion you want taught is
mere superstition and nonsense, which
should be educated out of the parents,
and not into the children. Once more,
I say, let there be liberty.

Perchance Sabbatarianism is your
particular hobby, and you believe that
a nation which “desecrates the Sab-

bath” will be cursed of God. You
probably, therefore, want the com-
mandments, and _ particularly the
fourth, learned by heart by every

Canadian child. It is not enough for
you to teach your own children so,
but you insist upon the children of
people, who think your Sabbatarian-
ism Puritan fudge, to be taught that
their parents misbehave themselves
shockingly on Sunday. I repeat, let
us have liberty.

Or is the abolition of alcoholism
your particular ambition? Then you
desire that the deplorable effects of
fermented liquors should be impressed

364

upon the rising generation—the body

(God’s temple) should be kept pure
from the degrading thing ; nine-tenths
of the vice, sin, and shame are its off-
spring, ete., ete. All, beyond doubt, as
well founded as are the arguments to
support all the other isms of which
you make so little; but, for the last
time, I tell you that thousands of ex-
cellent people k believe you to be a mere
crabbed bigot, and would muck rather
have your children taught to think so
than that theirs should be trained
to think like you. There must be
liberty.

And so I would have no isms in the
schools at all ? you ask—no Imperial
Federation, no Militarism, no Pietism
no Sabbatarianism, no Anti- Alcohol-
ism? Quite the contrary, my friend;
I would have all these, and every
other ism, of such like, you can think
of, in the schools; but upon this one
condition, that the parents of all the
children should be willing to have
them there. In the name of liberty,
I would say to the parents, certainly
you have a right to teach, or have
taught to your children anything you
like, so long as you can agree about it.
I would not ask that a whole province
should be unanimous before Sabbatar-
ianism should be taught in a single
county; nor that a whole county
should be made unanimous _ before
militarism should be taught in one of
its school districts; nor even that a
whole school district should be unani-
mous before Imperialism should be
taught in one of its schools. What
does the principle of liberty require ?
This and nothing more, that parents
should not be required to subscribe to
the school rates, and at the same time
have their children taught some ism
that they abhor; and, on the other
hand, that where the parents of all
the children in any school desire that
an ism should be taught, taught it
ought to be. And I shall add, that
when I speak of unanimity I mean
practical unanimity, and not such as
would make it necessary to include all

THE CANADIAN

MAGAZINE.

mere eccentric or isolated opinion of
every ordinary or extraordinary sort.
We can never expect to have theor-
etical perfection in the application of
even undoubted doctrines to all possi-
ble conditions and contingencies.

Let me gather up some conclusions.
Education can be conceived as some-
thing entirely apart from all isms
Nevertheless in the community are
many people who desire to have par-
ticular isms taught in the schools.
Liberty requires that children should
not be taught isms to which their
parents are opposed. butat the same
time liberty does not require that
children should be allowed to grow up
entirely illiterate. Liberty further re-
quires that where the parents of the
children of any one school desire that
a particular ism should be taught,
taught it ought to be. And it further
requires that in arranging the schools,
reasonable facilities ought, if possible,
to be given for the combination of
such children in separate schools. It
would be the antipode of liberty that
such combination should be prevented
in cases in which it did not materially
interfere with the efficiency of other
schools.

Let me put a concrete case. In the
Province of Ontario there is a large
number of Roman Catholics who be-
lieve that their children would be very
improperly educated were they sent to
secular schools, or even to schools
which Protestants would approve of.
In that case, what does the principle
of liberty require? Merely this, that
opportunities should be given for the
combination of Roman Catholics in
certain of the schools, if that can be
done without disturbing unduly the
efficiency of the other schools. They
desire that an ism should be taught to
their children. By all means let it be
so, if it costs nothing, or very little, to
other people. Liberty to them, and
all others, should be accorded even at
some expense to the community, for
one of the objects of our institutions
is to afford as much individual liberty

Win MRT

RR N/E

de
mi
of

de
th:
sel
po
Re
pr
ate
no
th
cif

ito
on

SE]

tri
18
Of

ag

on
po
lar
ea
a})
thé
sel
lov
thi
wi
qu
en
Ac
tri
Sél
vie
the
pre

tal
lig
to

yo
yo
for

edi

see

ip

le,

ad

er

he
in
be
he
ey
to
be

nd
at
for
yns
rty

28S SET cL

as possible. The opportunities they
desire may, without loss to the com-
munity, be given to them in two sets
of cases: (1) where the population is
dense, and yet mixed (in these cases
there will be room for two sets of
schools); (2) in districts where the
population is sparse but entirely
foman Catholic. Against the pro-
priety of granting facilities for separ-
ate schools in these cases, there can be
nothing said without intolerance and
the breach of our most cherished prin-
ciples of liberty.

One word of application to the Man-
itoba schools The Rev. Dr. Bryee,
one of the bitterest opponents of the
separate schools, has recently stated
as follows:—“Out of 719 school dis-
tricts in Manitoba, when the Act of
1890 was passed, 91 were Catholic.
Of these all but a very small percent-
age are in localities almost entirely
French.” I may add that of the
“very small percentage” there were
only four school districts in which the
population, although mixed, was not
large enough to support a school of
each kind. Our principle of liberty
applied to Manitoba therefore requires
that in all but four out of the 91
schools the Catholics ought to be al-
lowed to have their way, and to teach
their religion to their children if they
wish, provided only that the just re-
quirements of the State with refer-
ence to secular learning are observed.
Acting upon the very contrary doc-
trine, namely, that of intolerance, con-
sciously or unconsciously having in
view the hindrance of the teaching of
the Catholic religion as something de-
praved, Manitoba has said to a large
section of her people, unless you under-
take to stop teaching your own re-
ligion, to your own children, in schools
to which no one goes except those of
your own faith, we will not permit
you to organize yourselves together
for the instruction of those in whose
education the whole community has
a decided interest. We would rather

see them illiterate than Catholic, but

ISMS 1N THE SCHOOLS.

365

we hope to avoid illiteracy by driving
them into adoption of secular schools,
under stress of financial difficulties
with which we shall surround them.
And so we have, even in the last
decade of the 19th century, the spirit
of intolerance as rampant and vigor-
ous as ever ; although with this differ-
ance principally, that whereas in the
past the churches have had their
innings, and the unbelievers have had
to do much active fielding, the parsons
are now out and are finding it toler-
ably difficult to keep within limits the
scoring (they are receiving) ; for all of
which, in my humble judgment, the
churches have themselves to thank.
Love your enemies was always their
doctrine, but never their practice. And
now their day has come, and while
the Tudors would not have allowed
any one to teach unless under license
from the Bishop; modern regulations
require the Bishop himself to have his
certificate, and charge him straightly
not to say a word concerning that
which he believes to be the essence of
all education. Ido not mean to im-
ply that unbelievers have now a mo-
nopoly of intolerence. What I would
rather say is that, in my opinion, the
most intolerant people of the day are
the sceptics (i speak, of course, of the
class); that it is they (not merely
those so avowed, but that very much
larger class that is practically unbe-
lieving although still pronouncing the
shibboleths) that are the most deter-
mined in their hostility to the
Catholic religion being taught in the
Catholic schools. Large numbers of
believing Protestants, no doubt, agree
with them, and the rancour of many
individuals among these cannot be ex-
ceeded ; but very many of this class
would be glad to accord liberty to the
Catholics could they but get a little of
it for themselves. That they cannot
do so is due, I believe, to those who
deem religion not to be of the highest
importance—that is, that scepticism
avowed and unavowed (perhaps re-
pudiated, but nevertheless domin-

366

ating), is now at the wicket. I

know that sceptics believe them-
selves to be the most tolerant of
people, but I am convinced that my
estimate of them is correct. (Rousseau
required all his citizens to be tolerant,
having first directed to be exiled or
executed all who would not subscribe
and live up to his profession of faith.)
Burke, a hundred years ago spoke of
atheists as holding “those principles
which will not leave to religion even
a toleration”; and Priestly a few
years earlier wrote: “The most unre-
lenting persecution is to be appre-
hended not from bigots, but from in-
fidels. A bigot who is so from a prin-
ciple of conscience may possibly be
moved by a regard to the conscience
of others ; but a man who thinks that
conscience ought always to be sacri-
ficed to political views has no princi-
ple on which an argument in favor of
toleration can lay hold.” To the writ-
ers of those days I shall add one of
the most brilliant of the present—
John Morley, himself by many
thought to be a mere secularist, be-
cause free from thecurrent dogmatic re-
ligion: “That brings us to the root
of the matter, the serious side of a
revolution that in its social conse-
quence is so unspeakably ignoble.
This root of the matter is the slow
transformation now at work of the
whole spiritual basis of thought.

Every age is in some sort an age of

transition, but our own is character-

(a) Essay onthe First Principles of Government, 290,
(b) On Compromise, 136.

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

istically and cardinally an epoch of
transition in the very foundations of
belief and conduct. The old hopes
have grown pale; the old fears dim;
strong sanctions have become weak,
and once vivid faiths very numb.
Religion, whatever destinies may be
in store for it, is, at least for the pre-
sent, hardly any longer an organic
power. It is not that supreme, pene-
trating, controlling, decisive part of a
man’s life, which it has been and will
be again. The native hue of
spiritual resolution is sicklied o’er
with the pale cast of distracted, wav-
ering, confused thought. The souls of
men have become void. Into the void
have entered in triumph the seven
devils of secularity.”

And so secularism must have its
day, and show what of weal or woe
there is in it. It may be the “ ulti-
mate infallible credo;” but it, too,
most probably will sink into the ditch
and become a dead body, and a warn-
ing for all later cock-sure philosophers.
Upon this it is not necessary that an
opinion should be offered by one
whose humble belief is that

Our little systems have their day ;

They have their day and cease to be,
and that for the most part we are
but children crying in the night, “and
with no language but acry.” Let us,
I say, while our particular little sys-
tem is disappearing, have peace ; let
us have sympathy and tolerance, the
one for the other; and whether these
or not, at the least let us have liberty.

Winnipeg, June, 1893.

ere

en

its
roe
ti-
00,
tch
n-
TS.

me

are

ind

ys-
let
the

ese
rty.

meee

rapes

HUMOR IN

THE SCHOOlb-ROOM.

BY JAMES L. HUGHES, INSPECTOR OF PUBLIC SCHOOLS FOR THE CITY OF TORONTO,

FoRTY years ago sternness was the
moral force most used by teachers in
controlling their pupils. To smile was
a grave offence; to laugh was a flog-
able crime. In school, as in church,
girls and boys had to be solemn, or
else be sorry they had not been sol-
emn. When ghosts, ogres, or other
monstrosities had lost their terrors,
then children were threatened with the
living embodiment of all horrors: the
schoolmaster.

But even the terrible schoolmasters
could only restrain nature, and not
destroy it. Mirth sometimes asserted
its divine right to rule even in the
gloomiest schools. Boys laughed, how-
ever, against orders. A smile was a
stolen luxury. Merriment was sin-
ful. So far as the master’s influ-
ence moulded character, boys became
sly and secretive, and lost frankness
when they smiled, because they were
made conscious of the fact that by
smiling they were breaking the law.
Still there were many boys and girls
who broke the law even though they
knew the penalty was a whipping.
Sometimes the master was agreeable
enough tosleep inschool. Those were
golden moments. The happiest times
we had in school, were the times the
master was asleep or out of the room.
We enjoyed his retirement better than
his resting periods, because when he
was asleep we had to contine ourselves
to smiling lest we should wake him.
While he was out of the room the
merriment was uproarious. While he
dozed we had to develop self-control,
and this was about the only opportu-
nity we had to develop self-control
from a positive motive.

One day a ten year old boy was
smiling unspeakable sentiments across
the room to a responsive, blue-eyed,

yellow-haired lassie, while the master
dreamed. Suddenly the master’s eyes
opened, and when the little fellow’s
heart was fullest and his smile broad-
est, he was startled by the thundered
command: “Come here, sir, and I’ll
larn you how to laugh.” The boy
crept to the desk as though he felt
this to be a totally unnecessary lesson,
and stood dreading its commencement.
“ Which would you rather be whipped
with, sir, the rod, the ruler or the
strap?” We were all amazed at the
master’s consideration. At length the
boy made his chvice and decided in
favor of the rod. “Oh! you'd like
the rod, would you? then I'll use the
strap.” He took the strap accordingly,
and proceeded to “larn the boy to
laugh.” Judged by results, his lesson
was not a success. His method was
evidently a very bad one, but it was
nearly as logical as his method of
teaching anything else.

So common were whippings in
school in those days, boys were train-
ed to regard school as a place of pun-
ishment, and whipping as one of the
regular parts of the programme. A
little boy walked straight up to his
teacher the first morning he ever went
to school, and after the preliminary
questions had been asked regarding
his name, age and residence, he _ reso-
lutely held out his hand and said:
“ Well, lick me and let me go to my
seat.”

Sometimes the fun became hilarious
when the culprit declined to take his
punishment, and preferred to run
around the room instead. It was no
uncommon thing for every other boy
and girl to stand up and cheer the
boy who was successfully dodging the
master. The excitement on such oc-

casions was intense, and if the master,

368

in his undignified rush after his in-
tended victim, fell or hurt his leg
against the corner of a desk, a wild
cheer from the entire school showed
that the boy had the sympathy of his

companions. On rare occasions—too
rare—we were treated to an unex-
pected entertainment, when a large
boy rebelled against the injustice of
the teacher, and gave a whipping in-
stead of receiving one. Such an event
enabled us to bear the evils of our
condition with resignation. Humor
would assert itself even under the most
unfavorable conditions. We would
laugh when a boy cried in a new key,
or rubbed the injured part of his body
with unusual energy. Agony becaine
so common that we laughed at any of
its remarkable characteristics. The
school-room humor of early days was
grim in character and restricted in
quantity. The boy was excusable who
called his poem on the departed teacher,
“The Loss of a Whaler.” Probably the
best story of genuine humor associated
with the rod is that told of the boy
whose master, hearing a noise behind
him, turned suddenly and seizing the
boy whom he suspected, proceeded to
give him a severe whipping. The
more vigorously the blows were ad-
ministered the more heartily the boy
laughed. At length the irritated
master shouted, “ What are you laugh-
ing at, sir?” “I was laughing at the
joke on vou; ha! ha! ha! you're
whipping the wrong boy.”

Fortunately for the boys, whipping
is not now regarded as the only discip-
linary agent, or as the best, except in
peculiar cases. It was hardening in
its general effects on character. The
attitude of the boys towards the mas-
ter and his administration of punish-
ment were fully and graphically ex-
ressed by the reply of the little fel-
ow who, when his teacher said, “ Do
you know why I am going to whi
you, sir?” replied, “YesIdo. It’s be-
cause you're bigge’n I am.”

The spirit of the school-room has
changed. The wise teacher encour-

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

ages pure fun, and laughs heartily at
every occurrence, or remark, or hum-
orous story that comes properly to en-
liven the life of the school. Children
are trained to stand up before the
class and tell good humorous stories,
and this exercise is infinitely more
developing than the old-fashioned
means of cultivating the power of oral
expression.

It might naturally be supposed that,
next to the physical aitliction periods
the most unlikely time for humor to
come into a school would be during
the religious exercises. The natural
seriousness of these exercises is some-
times disturbed, however.

“Who made you?” asked a prim-
ary teacher. The little girl addressed
evidently wished to be accurate in her
reply; “God made me so long,’—in-
dicating the length of a short baby—
“and I growed the rest.”

The word altar occurred in the
Scripture selection. “ What is an
altar?” said the teacher. “A place
to burn insects,” replied an honest boy.
“Who were the foolish virgins?”
brought the prompt answer from a
wise little girl, “Them as didn’t get
married.” The Mormons were preach-
ing in an English village, and the
teacher properly directed the moral
teaching of his school to the promin-
ent evil of the time. As a basis for
his remarks, he decided to ask a few
preliminary questions. “ Boys,” said
he, “can any of you quote a verse from
Scripture to prove that it is wrong
for a man to have two wives?” He
paused, and after a moment a bright
boy raised his hand. “ Well, Thomas?”
said the teacher, encouragingly.
Thomas stood up and said solemnly :
“ No man can serve two masters.”
The questioning ended there. A teach-
er said to her class, “ Whom do you
especially wish to see when you go to
heaven?” “Gerliah,” was probably
the most candid answer she received.
There was no hypocrisy in the boy
who longed to see the great giant who
had been defeated by young David.

PION as

mee

re

id
m
1g
Le
ht
9»
ly.
y:

h-

Ou

Ly
sd.

OY
ho
id.

HUMOR

The religious teachings of home and
school seem to give a flavor to answers
on very different subjects—especially
when religious teaching is made a mat-
ter of memorizing words that are not
understood. The girl who said, “A
republican is a sinner mentioned in
the Bible;” and the boy who wrote,
“There are a good many donkeys in
the theological gardens,” had evidently
received a religious training. At an
examination in England the pupils
were asked to explain the difference
between the religious beliefs of the
Jews and the Samaritans. One an-
swer was: “ lhe Jews believed in the
Synagogue, and had their Sunday on

Saturday, but the Samaritans be-
lieved in the Church of England, and
worshipped in groves of oak ; therefore
the Jews had no dealings with the
Samaritans.”

The words, “ His Satanic Majesty ”
occurred in a story read in one of the
Toronto Public Schools. ‘“ How many
know who his Satanic Majesty is?”
said the teacher. Several hands were
raised, and the first pupil named,
promptly replied, “The Inspector.” It
is encouraging to know that she was
a very young child. History and
Scripture were never more thoroughly
mixed than by the boy who wrote,
“Titus was a Roman Emperor—sup-
posed to have written the epistle to
the Hebrews—his other name was
Oates.”

The ridiculous answers given at writ-
ten examinations would fill many vol-
umes. Sometimes they are the result
of improper questioning, sometimes
of mental peculiarities in pupils, often
of poor teaching, which is satisfied
with giving words, instead of ideas, to
children.

The ecliptic had been taught as “ An
imaginary line repr esenting the appar-
ent path ‘of the sun through the heav-
ens,” but at the examination it was
defined as, “An imaginary line going
round the equator; it seems to be the
path which the earth goes round, but
it is really the path to heaven.” A

IN THE

SCHOOL-ROOM. 369

student preparing to be a teacher
wrote: “The aim of geography is to
fit a man for the business of life, and
lead him to prepare for death and the
other world.” Another believer in the
uplifting power of geography wrote :
“A person ignorant of geography is
wrapped up in his own narrow sphere
of ignorance, and is generally a bore.”
An English girl wrote: “ Oliver Crom-
well was a man who was put in prison
for his interference in Ireland. When
he was in prison he wrote ‘The Pil-
grim’s Progress, and married a lady
called Mrs. O’Shea.” A Canadian his-
torian informed the examiners that,
“The Whig Party was an army that
tried to skirmish every town.” An-
other pupil answered, “ The Whig par-
ty is the Conservatives,” and still an-
other said, “The W hig Party are the
ones that wish tor progress, ‘and they
don’t in general dress so gay as the
Tories.” It must have been a very rad-
ical son of a Radical who wrote, “ Per-
kin Warbeck raised a rebellion in the
reign of Henry VIII. He claimed to
be the son of a prince, but he was real-
ly the son of respectable people.” <A
young churchman wrote, “A Prime
Minister is one who stops at the same
church all the time.” “Free Trade”
is a question that always develops or-
iginal theories in the minds of youth-
ful economists. Here are a few speci-
mens. “ Free 'l'rade is carried on with-
out any money to pay for it.” “Free
Trade is the trade for fishing along the
shore, or selling whatever ‘they ‘like,
and can do what they think best.”
“Free Trade is, that a man buys a
piece of land, and pays for it, and re-
ceives a deed for it, and is subject to
nothing but the taxes of the country.”
When hygiene was taught in the
form of notes dictated by the teacher,
to be repeated orally by the pupils or
written down to be committed to
memory, the answers given in this
subject were often very amusing on
account of their incongruities. Read-
ing a few of them must convince even
skeptics that we are “fearfully and

370 THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

“We call the

wonderfully made.”
kidneys the bread basket, because it

is where all the bread goes to. They
lay up concealed by the heart.” “The
food passes through your windpipe to
the pores, and thus passes off your
body by evaporation through a lot of
little holes in the skin called capillar-
ies.” “We should die if we eat our
food roar.” “The food is nourished
in the stomach.” “ We should not eat
so much bone-making foods as flesh-
forming and warmth-giving foods, for
if we did we would have too many
bones, which would make us look
funny.” “Sugar is an amyloid: if
you was to eat much sugar and noth-
ing else, you would not live, because
sugar has not got no carbon, hydrogen,
oxygen, nitrogen. Potatoes is another
amyloids.” The poor buy who wrote
that will not live long if he crams his
stomach as badly as his teacher cram-
med his brain.

A young temperance advocate wrote,
“ Alcoholic beverages greatly obstruct
the breaking down of the body,” and
succeeded in saying exactly the oppos-
ite to what he meant. A constructive
anatomist volunteered the sentence :
“ The eyes are set in two sockets in a
bone which turns up at the end, and
then becomes the nose.” One of the
large class that ventures to give gen-
eral remarks at an examination as a
substitute for accurate knowledge,
wisely wrote the philosophical state-

ment: “The spine is quite an import-
ant bone.” Another gave the equally

profound answer : “ When you havea
illness it makes your health bad, as
well as having a disease.” The girl
who wrote the following had doubtless
associated with very selfish, grasping
people. “The body is ‘composed
chiefly of water, and nearly one half
of it is avaricious tissue.”

A few answers relating to other
subjects will close my “ examination
department.” “Prose tells things that
are true right along just as they are,
and poetry makes it up as you go
along.” “A circle is a round straight

line with a hole in the middle.”
“ Things which are equal to each other
are equal to anything else.” “The chief
products of the United States is earth-
quakes and volcanoes,” “The rapids
of the St. Lorence is caused by the
canoes of the Indians.” “In Austria
the principal occupation is gathering
Austrich feathers.” “The two most
famous volcanoes of Europe are Sodom
and Gomorrah.” “Climate lasts all
the time, and weather only a few
days.” “John Bunyan lived a life of
seantity.” “John Locke’s works are
full of energy and lack no little want
of thought.” “Julias Cesar was quite
a military man on the whole.” “By
the Salic laws no woman or descend-
ant of a woman could occupy the
throne.” “Columbus knew the earth
was round because he balanced an egg
on the table.” “Alfred the Great
reigned 872 years. He was distin-
guished for letting some buckwheat
cakes burn, and the lady scolded him.”
If anything were needed to prove
the absolute stupidity of the simul-
taneous repetition by the class of oral
statements made by the teacher, as a
substitute for teaching, the following’
should be conclusive: A word with
whose meaning the child is not defi-
nitely acquainted is merely a new
noise toit. Even if it is familiar with
the meaning of the language, it is
often liable to confound the words
used with others similar in sound.
“John, give an example of a noun,”
said the teacher, and John, after medi-
tation gave “organ grinder.” “ Why ?”
“ Because he’s a person plays a thing.”
“Queen Mary married the Dolphin.”
“ Mrs. Browning wrote poetry to the
pottery geese.” This was not compli-
mentary to the Portuguese, nor to the
teacher's method of teaching literature.
“The organs of digestion are the
stomach, liver, spleen and _ utensils.”
“The heart is a comical shaped bag.”
“The blood is putrefied in the lungs
by inspired air.” The ideas given by
the pupils who wrote these answers
were not very clear. Unfortunately

pe
J

B,
er
ef
h-
ds

he

_
st
m
il]
Ww
of
re
nt

sy
d-

1e

rg

£

HUMOR IN THE

there are many pupils whoare trained
to repeat answers correctly and very
fluently, who have no definite concep-
tion of the meaning of the words they
use. Good teachers give their pupils
every possible opportunity to use new
words, and give their own ideas of
their meaning. Such exercises reveal
the most extraordinary misconceptions
sometimes. “ What is guilt?” “Tell-
ing on another boy.” “ What is love?”
“It's going errands,” said little Mary.
A poor boy was asked, “ What is a
gentlemen?” “A fellow that has a
watch and chain,” he replied, adding,
when he saw that his answer was not
perfectly satisfactory, “and loves
Jesus.” He evidently thought the
latter portion of his answer should
atone for any weakness in the former
part. A Sunday school child told her
day school teacher that “ Missionaries
are men who get money.” “ Epicure is
a man who likes a good dinner.”
“ Alias was a good man mentioned in
the Bible.” “ Medizval is a wicked
man who has been tempted.” Some-
times a pupil comes nearer the truth
than might be expected in defining a
word he does not understand, as did
the boy who wrote, “ A demagogue is

a vessel containing beer and other
liquids.” Even when pupils have a

clear conception of the meaning of
words they often give amusing applica-
tions of them when asked for illustra-
tive definitions. “Tom, use a sentence
with responsibility in it.” Tom said,
“When one suspender button is gone,
there is a great deal of responsibility
on the other one.” “ Write a sentence
with the word nauseous in it,” brought
out the answer, “This examination
makes me feel nauseous.”

The oral answers given in class are
often mirth-provoking. The word
“lad” occurred in the primary reading.
“ What is a lad ?” enquired the teach-
er. A very small girl answered, “ A
thing for courting with.” “Give the
future of drink.” “ Present he drinks,
future he will be drunk.” “The plural
of pillow?” “ Bolster.” “Compare

SCHOOL-ROOM. 371

ill?” “Ill, worse, dead.” This recalls
the answer of the boy who said,
“ Masculine, man; feminine, woman ;
neuter, corpse.” ‘“ What are the chief
imports of Canada?” “ Emigrants.”
“ Did you ever see an elephant’s skin?”
“Yes, sir!” “Where?” “On the
elephant,” said the innocent youngster.
“ What do you know of W ellington e

First boy: “He won the battle of
Waterloo.” Second boy: “He was

Prime Minister of England.” Third
boy: “He is dead.” “ What do you
call a man from Poland?” “A Pole.”
“One from Holland?” “A Hole.”
“ What is the difference between foot,
and feet?” “One feet is a foot, and
a whole lot of foots is a feet,” explain-
ed the young philosopher.

Many people imagine that boys and
girls are not philosophers. This proves
that they are not well acquainted with
boys and girls. They are great rea-
soners within their proper range of
thought. They think quickly and ac-
curately as far as their knowledge ex-
tends. They get out of a difficulty by
their wits as if they were trained law-
yers. “Who was the first man ?” said
a Chicago teacher. “ Washington,”
promptly answered the young Ameri-
can. “No,” said the teacher, “ Adam
was the first man.” “Oh! well, I
suppose you are right,” replied the un-
daunted patriot, “if you refer to fur-
riners.’ “ How did that blot come on
your copy book, Sam?” “I think it
is a tear, Miss Wallace.” “ How could
a tear be black, Sam?” “It must

nave been a colored boy who dropped
it,” suggested the reflective Samuel.
The teacher told her class that Charles
II. was a Roman Catholic. Independ-
ent Lulu said she thought he was an
Episcopalian. “ Why, Lulu?” “ Be-
cause we read that he did things that
he ought not to have done, and left
undone things he ought to have done.”
‘Would you believe that a star is big-
ger than the earth?” “No,” said
Chester, “if it was it would keep the
rain off.” “The ostrich is the only bird
remarked the

on which you can ride,”

372 THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

teacher. “ Why, no it aint,” said little
Peter, “ you can ride ona lark.’ “ Why
do you think so, Peter?” “ Well, I
know when my uncle was gone for a
week, mother said, he ‘was off on a
lark, and when he came home his face
was red, as if he had been riding
hard.” “ What made the tower of Pisa
lean?” “The famine in the land.”
“ We can only hear sound, we cannot
feel sound,” said the teacher. “You
can feel a sound thrashing, can’t you ?”
asked Fred. “ What makes the ocean
salt?” “Salt fish,” answered reflect-
ive Donald. “What does sea water
contain beside sodium chloride?”
“Fish, sir,” said a boy who trusted to
his shrewdness more than to prepara-
tion of his lessons. The same boy
when asked to draw a picture of
Jonah and the whale, drew the whale
only. “Where is Jonah?” asked the
teacher, sharply. “Inside the whale,”
said the imperturbable boy. “Now,
children,” said the teacher, “we have
gone through the history of England,
tell me in whose reign would you live
if you could choose for yourself ?”
“In the reign of King James,” said
philosophic Alec., “ because I read that
education was very much neglected in
his time.” “Count twenty when you
are angry before you strike,” said the

teacher. “ Please, I think it is better
to count forty if you can’t lick the
other fellow,” wisely added the cau-
tious Harold. “Susan, if I were a
little girl I would study my lessons,”
said the teacher, reprovingly. “Then
I guess you are glad that you aint a
little girl,” shrewdly answered Susan.”
“If you wish to be good-looking when
you grow up, you should go to bed
early,” was the advice of a lady teacher
to her class in hygiene. Isabel rather
rudely ventured to say in reply: “I
spect you set up late when you was a
girl.” Oh, yes! girls and boys can
think and apply their thoughts.

The humor of the schoolroom is too
valuable to be lost. Every teacher
should record the humorous answers,
and the amusing incidents in connec-
tion with her class. Teachers’ Asso-

ciations should appoint Recorders of

Humor, to whom all teachers should
send the merry sketches of their
school-rooms. An hour spent in read-
ing these stories in conventions would
be protitably spent. The publication

of a volume of such stories periodically
would enrich the literature of humor.
The best collection of extraordinary
answers yet issued is that prepared
by Miss Caroline B. Le Row, of Brook-
lyn, New York.

—

in

ng

COLI

aie

oe

KINGSbbEY’S “ WATER BABIES.”

BY PROF. WM. CLARK, LL.D., F.RSC.

“Tire Water Babies” is called by its
author, the late Canon Charles King-
sley, “a Fairy Tale for a Land-baby.”
It appeared for the first time, in 1863,
in the pages of Macmillan’s Monthly
Magazine, and was published in a
volume in the same year. From that
time to this, it has appeared in many
editions in England and in the United
States, and there is no appearance of
any waning in its popularity.

It is now generally agreed that the
Water Babies is not only a fairy tale
of great beauty, but an allegory of re-
markable depth, insight, and power, a
parable of man’s spiritual life on earth.
The present writer came very soon to
this conclusion, and ventured in private
and in public to give his exposition of
the story. Being challenged to bring
his version under the eye of Mr.
Kingsley, he published it in an Eng-
lish monthly magazine in 1870; and
soon afterwards obtained from the
author this assurance: “From begin-
ning to end, I desire not one word
more or less as regards my meaning.”
As the following exposition is, for the
most part, a reproduction of that
earlier one, the reader may feel satis-
fied that he has here Mr. Kingsley’s
own meaning lawfully got out of the
story, and not some theory of the
expositor’s foisted into it. It is with
satisfaction that we confirm the judg-
ment we had formed of this beautiful
book by the testimony of Mr. Thomas
Hughes, the author of “Tom Brown’s
School Days,” in Atalanta (Vol. I., p.
530), who says of the Water Babies,
“a fairy tale, as he called it, but con-
taining, nevertheless, the most com-
plete and consistent summing up of
his matured views on theological, poli-
tical, and social subjects that is to be
found in any of his writings.”

It may be remarked, in passing, that,
as Bunyan’s great allegory represented
the religious spirit of Puritanism in
the time of Charles II.,so Mr Kings-
ley’s Water Babies retlects, in a re-
markable manner, the religious senti-
ment and temper of the present day.

The story might be divided into two
parts, dealing with the life of the hero,
Tom, first as the history of a chimney
sweep, and secondly as that of a
Water Baby. The Water Baby life,
again, may be divided into three
periods: first, his life in the river be-
fore he helped the lobster out of the
pot; secondly, his life in S. Brandan’s
Isle under the discipline of the fairies,
Mrs. Be-done-by-as-you-did and Mrs.
Do-as-you-would-be-done-by; thirdly,
the period from the time when he set
off from the other end of nowhere to
the end of the story.

There can be little doubt that the
first period is intended to represent
the life of sin, ending with conversion
from sin. Tom and his master, Mr.
Grimes, are represented as very dirty ;
and it is the conviction of his foulness
that leads to Tom’s conversion. ‘This
conviction was produced, first of all,
by an Irishwoman, who represents
Conscience, and, perhaps, also Provi-
dence. It should be remarked that
this character did not appear in the
original form of the story in Mac-
millan; and the present writer was
informed by the author that it was
added at the suggestion of the late
Judge Erskine—‘ best of churchmen
and of men,” as Mr. Kingsley called
him—who thought it better to prepare
the reader for the allegorical meaning
of the story.

The work begun by the Irishwoman
was carried on by the sight of Ellie in
her pure, white bed, contrasted with

374

his own “little, ugly, black, ragged
figure, with bleared eyes and grinning
white teeth,” in a great mirror in her
chamber; and it was completed by
Mrs. Grimes at Vendale expressing her
dislike of chimney sweeps. All these
things worked themselves into Tom’s
heart and soul, and, erying out “I
must be clean, I must be clean,” he
cast himself into the river, and became
a Water Baby. Here we have one
type of conversion, which begins in
the sense of evil and the longing for
deliverance from evil.

Passing on to the Water Baby life,
it can hardly be doubted that the first
period represents the life of mere
Selfishness and Worldliness. It may
be a life of comparative innocence, or
it may be sinful, this life of the
“natural man,” but it is shallow and
frivolous, without deep convictions or
any serious sense of responsibility,
without earnest purposes or strenuous
efforts. We see it in Tom worrying
the caddises, tormenting the little
trout, making faces at the otter,
chatting with the dragon-fly, and
admiring the salmon.

But a change came with his helping
the lobster out of the pot. The de-
scription of this episode is one of the
most delightful in the whole book;
and at the end of his work Tom
entered into a new experience. “He
had not left the lobster five minutes
betore he came upon a Water Baby.
A real live Water Baby sitting on the
white sand, very busy about a little
point of rock. And when it saw Tom
it looked up for a moment, and then
cried, ‘Why, you are not one of us.
You are a new baby.” Tom was
much surprised. “Well,” he said,
“this is wonderful! I have seen
things just like you again and again,
but I thought you were shells or sea
creatures. I never took you for
Water Babies like myself”? The au-
thor tells his readers to guess the
reason for this, which we will venture
to do. Whilst men are living a purely
selfish and worldly life, their fellow-

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

creatures are to them simply the
means of amusement and entertain-
ment. But, just as Tom’s act of self-
denying kindness to the lobster opened
his eyes to see the Water Babies, so
when men go forth towards their
fellow-creatures in acts of self-forget-
ful love and sacrifice, then do they
recognize their fellow men as children
of the same family, as brothers and
sisters.

The readers of Coleridge’s “ Ancient
Mariner” will remember how selfish-
ness killed and withered all that was
around him, but when the Mariner
looked upon the beautiful things in
the sea, and “blessed them in his
heart,” all was changed. It is the true
spiritual awakening of man’s heart,
however it may come to him. It is
the passing away of old things the
becoming new of all things. Now
other men are not merely creatures to
buy and sell with, or to be amused
with, or to quarrel with; but they are
brethren. ‘This is conversion from
selfishness or worldliness, just as the
sense of evil, the longing for deliver-
ance, the steadfast purpose to lead a
better life, is conversion from sin.

Tom is now the representative of
the human soul brought into a right
relation to God. But all is not yet
done, as people are too often tempted
to imagine. A man may be a new
man, but he does not at once leave
behind him all the habits contracted
through years. There is still a sin
that doth beset him. And so it was
with Tom. He could not at once give
up all his old tricks ; and he has to go
through some useful discipline at the
hands of the sister fairies, Mrs. Be-
done-by-as-you-did, who represents
law, and Mrs. Do-as-you-would-be-
done-by, who represents grace—the
two great agencies in the guiding and
moulding of our moral and spiritual
life on earth.

The description of Tom’s interview
with Mrs. Be-done-by-as-you-did is a
passage of wonderful force and power.
She has been giving sweet things to

a TE NO 0

- nk iam aes ma S&S Pere oe 6 8 Ss a a.

the other children; but into Tom’s
mouth she put a nasty, cold, hard peb-
ble, which he thought very cruel. But
she explained to him that as he did to
others, so she must do to him, and she
needed no information abcut it—-every-
body told her exactly what he had done,
and she could not help acting as she
had done. Here is the law written
upon man’s nature, the law of sowing
and reaping. If sour grapes are eaten,
the teeth are set on edge as a certain
consequence.

And then she explains toTom why
he had thought her so ugly. “Iam
very ugly,” she said, “I am the very
ugliest fairy in the world, and I shall
be till people behave themselves as
they ought to do, and then I shall
grow as handsome as my sister, who is
the loveliest fairy in the world, and
her name is Mrs. Do-as-you-would-be-
done-by.” ‘To the breakers of the law
law is ugly and repulsive. To those
who love and keep the law, it is beau-
tiful, as beautiful as Grace itself.

Mrs. Do-as- you-would-be-done-by
is a beautiful fairy, very unlike her
sister in appearance and in her ways.
Tom was introduced to this lady asa
new baby, and she took him in her
arms and laid him in the softest place
of all, and kissed him and petted him,
and talked to him, tenderly and low,
such things as he had never heard in
his life. Tom fell asleep, and when
he woke she was telling the children
a story—one which begins every
Christmas eve, and yet never ends at
all, for ever and ever. This was, of
course, the story of redemption and
grace. Law rewarded them according
to their deeds. Grace comes and gives
blessing without regarding any con-
sideration save the need of those to
whom she comes.

One interesting episode should here
be noted, namely, Tom’s getting at
the lollypops on the sly, and stealing
and eating them, and being made sick

by them. It is the case of those who
would attain to all the delight of re-
ligion without undergoing the self-

KINGSLEYV’S “WATER BABIES.”

375

renunciation and the sacrifice which
are the appointed way to them. They
would have the crown without the
cross, and no good cancome of any
such methods to the experimenter or
to others.

And now we come to the third and
last period in the Water Baby life.
In addition to the two fairies, little
Ellie, whom Tom had seen when he
was a chimney sweep, and who had
become a Water Baby, had lately been
one of Tom’s teachers, and a very val-
uable guide and teacher. But one
thing Tom wanted to know, and that
was, where little Ellie went when she
went home on Sundays. “Toa very
beautiful place,” she said. But, what
was the beautiful place like and where
was it? Ah! that is just what she
could not say. And it is strange, but
true, that no one can say; and that
those who have been oftenest in it, or
even nearest to it, can say least about
it, and make people understand least
what it is like.

The meaning of all this is tolerably
plain. “ What is the higher life of
man like? What is the heart of man
like, when he is lifted out of his
natural pride and sensuality and
worldliness? Could he give an
answer to this question, which would
convey any clear meaning to another ?
We fancy not. And so Mrs. Do-as-
you-would-be-done-by told Tom,
“Those who go there (where Ellie
went on Sunday) must go first where
they do not like, and do what they do
not like, and help somebody they do
not like.” We understand this testi-
mony. The Captain of our salvation
was made perfect through sufferings ;
and there is no other way to perfection
and blessedness but by treading the
rough and thorny way of self-denial
and self-sacrifice. “Through much
tribulation,” in one shape or another,
the kingdom must be entered.

Tom suspected that the thing which
he was required to do—which he would
not like to do—was to help Mr. Grimes;
but at last he consented to the con-

376

ditions and set off on his journey to
the Other-end-of-nowhere. He was
directed to go to Mother Carey, who
would tellhim the way. We can only
treat in the briefest manner of the in-
cidents on the way to Mother Carey.
First, Tom tried to obtain guidance
from the Gairfowl—a delightful speci-
men of the self-sufficient class, who are
sc satistied with what they know, so
undesirous of learning anything more,
and so contemptuous of those who are
conscious of their own deficiencies and
ever anxious to repair them, that they
lose the knowledge and energy which
they once possessed.

Next he came to an old whale, who
directed him to Mother Carey, who
certainly represents Dame Nature.
She appeared at a distance as an ice-
berg. But as he came nearer, it took
the form of the grandest old lady he
had ever seen—a white marble lady,
sitting on a white marble throne.
And from the foot of the throne there
swam away, out and out into the sea,
millions of new-born creatures, of more
shapes and colors than man ever
dreamed, and they were Mother
Carey’s children, whom she makes out
of sea water all day long. She sat
quite still with her chin upon her
hand, looking down into the sea with
two great blue eyes, as blue as the sea
itself. She gave Tom two directions:
first, he was to follow the dog and
then he was to walk back wards—sig-
nifying that Nature’s true guides for
men are instinct and experience.

If it isasked, why Nature is brought
in at this particular point, two an-
swers may be given. In the first
place, we must not regard the succes-
sive parts of the book as_ being
necessarily in chronological order; and
moreover, in the true sense of the
word, Nature is our guide; for, as
Bishop Butler has pointed out, we have
no right to say that we are following
Nature, when we are guided “by our
appetites and passions. Man _ has
other principles within him, and, at
the head of all, is reason and consci-

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

ence—that conscience of which But-
ler said, “if it had might as it has
right, it would rule the world.” Na-
ture, in this sense, represents God as
revealed to us in the world and in the
constitution of our own being.

Following out the directions of
Mother Carey, Tom proceeds on his
journey and meets with several thrill-
ing adventures. In the island of
Laputa—now named the Isle of Tom-
toddies—he meets a number of people
worshipping, and suffering grievously
from, “their great idol Examination.”
Here we are reminded of Professor
Freeman’s caustic remark, that, when
he was at Oxford, they were not being
eternally examined, so they had time
to learn something. Then he comes to
old-wives’ tabledom, “ where the folks
were all heathens and worshipped a
howling ape.” The Powwow man,
who is here introduced, represents that
class of Christian teachers, now less
abundant than in former days, who
think that no one can possibly be
made good unless he is first frightened
into fits.

At last he reaches Mr. Grimes, and
renders him the service for which he
had been sent. Many influences tend
to turn the heart of the reprobate old
chimney sweep; the remembrance of
his mother, the kindness of Tom, the
teaching of Mrs. Be-done-by-as-you-
did. But the great lesson brought out
is, that this is a work which no one
can do for another—which every one
must do for himself. It must not be
supposed that Kingsley was here teach-
ing any doctrine of human self-suttic-
iency, when he represents Mr. Grimes’s
tears as washing away the soot from
his face; but only that other people
and even God Himself can only help
us to do our own work.

Having accomplished the work on
which he had been sent, Tom is allow-
ed to return to 8S. Brandan’s Isle by
the Backstairs to which the reader's
attention may be particularly directed,
but without further comment. At 5S.
Brandan’s Isle he again meets Ellie,

ET TT ETP

——

say,
nev
The
out
all 2
wou
2001
you
oT
aga
Tor
he

ma

ET TTT

presse

but very different from what he had
previously known her. “ Oh, Miss El-
lie,” said he, “how you are grown.”
Oh, Tom,” said she, “how you are

grown too.” And no wonder; they
were both quite grown up—he into a
tall’ man, she into a beautiful woman.
At last they heard the fairy

say, “Attention, children; are you
never going to look at me again?”
They looked—and both of them cried
ut at once, “ Oh, who are you, after
all? You are our dear Mrs. Do-as-you-
would-be-done-by. No, you are our
good Mrs. Be-done-by-as-you-did ; but
you are grown quite beautiful now.”
To you,” said the fairy; “but look

again.” “ You are Mother Carey,” said
Tom, in a very low, solemn voice; for
he had found out somethine which
made him very happy, and yet fright-

KINGSLEY’S “ WATER BABIES.”

377

ened him more than he had
been.

“

ever

Sut you are grown quite young
again.” “To you,’ said the fairy.
“Look again.” “You are the Irish-
woman who met me the day I went to
Harthover.” And when they looked
she was neither of them, and yet all of
them at once.

The meaning of all this is now quite
plain. In this dim twilight of time,
when we are as children tossed to and
fro by various winds of doctrine, and
see as through a glass darkly, Nature,
and Grace, and Law, and Conscience,
and Providence seem to us often differ-
ent and even conflicting; but when
we are grown to the full stature of men
and women in Christ, and see as we
are seen, then shall we know that they
are all harmonious and one in God.

REGRET.

They planted lilies o’er her breast,
And watered them with faithful hand ;
They hailed at length each snowy crest,

And watched the graceful leaves expand.

‘““She loved the lilies so!

” they said,

And wept, poor souls, their honest tears,
The while fleet-footed mem’ry sped
Across the bridge that spanned the years.

‘Too harsh was fate with one so pure —

We might have seen, we might have known,
And yet we left her to endure

The light of broken faith alone !”

Contrite the words, as were the tears
That rained o’er lily cup and sheath,

Yet reached they not those deafened ears,
Nor moved that flood, the breast beneath.

Alas ! that our blind eyes should need
Anointing at so stern a hand!

Alas ! that human hearts must bleed
Ere they can fully understand !

—M. A. MarrLanp.

THE BATTLE OF STONY CREEK.

BY E. B.

IT was eighty years ago last month
since the battle of Stony Creek was
fought. Looking at it through this
perspective of years, this brave fight
of the little band of British and Cana-
dians against an overwhelming foe
gains rather than loses in importance
in its effect upon the fortunes of the
war of 1812-15. It turned the tide of
American invasion of Upper Canada,
and saved the province, not only for
that campaign, but for the remainder
of the war. To understand to what
an extent the fortunes of Upper Can-
ada were decided by that battle, it is
only necessary to recall the fact that
the Americans then held Fort George,
the frontier stronghold of the province,
and had forced the British out of
Chippewa, Fort Erie and all other
military posts of the Niagara penin-
sula. They were threatening the west-
ern frontier; they had only a month
before captured and destroyed York
(Toronto), and they had a powerful
fleet operating on Lake Ontario, and
capable, under an able commander, of
blockading every port of commerce,
and of holding possession of the entire
lake, as they then held possession of
the shores of Niagara. Those who
are familiar with the history of this
bootless and fratricidal war will re-
member the circumstances which
brought the British to a stand on
Burlington Heights. At midnight, on
the 26th of May, 1813, after a long
stand spent in preparation, the Ameri-
cans completed their final arrange-
ments for invading Canada from their
position acrossthe mouth of the Niagara.
On the Canadian side of the river, and
overlooking the shore of the lake,
stood old Newark, or Fort George, and
this the Americans marked out for de-
struction. Before dawn of the 27th,

BIGGAR.

under cover of a dense fog, the invad-
ing army embarked to the number
of 6,000 in all, the attack being cover-
ed by a heavy cannonade from the
American forts, and by broadsides
from a fleet of vessels well posted to
sweep the shore of the lake. With a
force of only 1,000 men, including
militia and Indians, the British, un-
der General John Vincent, were
soon driven into the forts. The
fog which occasionally screened the
enemy from view, and prevented the
details of attack from being expos-
ed, was not the only disadvantage the
British had to contend with. The
fortifications were insufficient, and
some parts scarcely tenable, and they
were so short of powder that the guns
of Fort George were compelled to re-
main silent, while Commodore Chaun-
cey was sounding the shore on the
previous evening within easy gunshot.
The men had been exhausted from
their long and tedious duty in await-
ing this long-expected invasion—for
heavy guards had lined the banks
night and day for an indefinite period
before this, and the duty was remem-
bered by all as the hardest of the year.
In resisting the attack, Col. Harvey,
the hero of this sketch, was posted to
the right of Fort George, his detach-
ment extending along the right of the
river to what was then known as
Brown’s Point, while Col. Myers was
stationed to the left, west of Fort Mas-
sassaugha, while the General occupied
the fort and town. Although the
cannon had been booming before dawn,
the Americans were not discovered un-
til the approach of day, when, through
the stagnant mist, they were seen
rapidly approaching from the lake,
west of the fort. About a hundred
boats and scows pushed in, and after

|
|
|
|

son
the
aw:
bee
was
bei
Vir
wal
van
the
gui
colt
sus
me!
nut
spil
Bee
hav
ed |
los:
"
eva
ord
For
con
at

seal
as :
cou
mo
as :
visi
our
See
resi
ban
Aw
mo’
wel
vol
libe
cho
poo
anc
the
fro:
thi:
opl
wh
the
ber
rat!
tho

CNS rw eS

Oo Oo O&O ®

ed

mM,
n-

en
<e,

ter

TS TPE TTY + SE. gan

we

THE BATTLE OF STONY CREEK.

some opposition effected a landing. As
the sun rose, and the mist cleared
away, the movements of the enemy
beeame more evident, and when it
was at last seen that the attack was
being made from the lake side only,
Vincent moved out from the fort to-
wards the shore and awaited the ad-
vance. The Americans had landed
their artillery, and, supported by their
guns, moved forward in three solid
columns. After a hard fight, and after
sustaining severe loss in officers and
men, Vincent, pressed hard by superior
numbers, evacuated the forts after
spiking the guns, and retreated to
Beaver Dams by way of Queenston,
having lost 445 men in killed, wound-
ed and prisoners, while the American
loss was only about 150.

The British General determined to
evacuate all the frontier posts and sent
orders, to Col. Bishopp, who then held
Fort Erie, and Major Ormsby, who
commanded at Chippewa, to join him
at the Beaver Dams, while a body of
seamen under Capt. Barclay, as well
as all the militia in that part of the
country, were also apprised of the
movement. Beaver Dams was used
as a depot for military stores and pro-
visions, and it was to this point that
our Canadian heroine, Mrs. James
Secord, brought the information which
resulted in the capture, by a small
band of British and Indians, of 550
Americans with two guns. By the
morning of the 25th of May the troops
were assembled, and the militia and
volunteers were told that they were at
liberty to return to their homes if they
chose. Some of the ofticers had but a
poor opinion of the Canadian militia,
and placed but little reliance upon
them in time of need, but it is evident
from Col. Harvey’s dispatches during
this war that he did not share that
opinion, especially later in the war,
when discipline and experience made
them cool and hardy. A large num-
ber followed the fortunes of the army
rather than disband, while many of
those who returned to their homes no

D

3723

doubt did so for the protection of their
families while the country was to be
overrun by the invaders. The impress-
ment of wagons and horses, the de-
struction of spare stores, and the move-
ment of the army westward must have
been a disheartening sight to the set-
tlers of the country, most of whom, from
the Niagara frontier to the head of Lake
Ontario, were United Empire Loyalists.
As the remnant of the army passed
on they left behind them many a scene
of sorrow and distress in the home-
steads where defenceless women and
childrenexpected the retreating British
to be follcwed by the invading foe,
who would soon take possession of the
land. These old Loyalists who had
fought for the King and left their
American homes had sacrificed every
comfort, every social advantage, and
every possession that contribute to
make life happy, and now these men,
with their wives and daughters, who
had faithfully followed them and borne
hardships that strong and courageous
men had shrunk from, were left to an-
ticipate the desolating presence of the
Empire's foes.

It was Vincent’s plan to retire to
the entrenched camp known as Bur-
Jington heights—now partly occupied
by the Hamilton cemetery and
there await developments. He passed
through De Cue’s (or De Cew’s), and
late at night pitched his camp at the
Forty- Mile Creek (now Grimsby). In
the morning, the General sent’ W. H.
Merritt (afterwards a public man of
some prominence, and from whom the
village of Merritton takes its name),
then a captain of the local yeomanry,
to reconnoitre the enemy and learn how
far they had advanced. With ten
men, Capt. Merritt went cautiously
back to the Twelve-Mile Creek, and
found that an advance body of forty
or fifty mounted Americans had reach-
ed De Cue’s, but had not appeared in

force. Having sent the news back to
Vincent, he stole home by the lake

road to spend a few hours with his
family, and then at midnight followed

380

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

back to the camp at Forty-Mile Creek. His movements at the taking of York
Here he received an order from the in April were ill-planned, and his ac-
General, who had reached Burlington tion after the capture of Fort George

heights with the army on the night of

JAMES GAGE’S OLD STORE, IN THE VINEYARDS.

the 29th, to remain at the “Forty”
until driven away by the enemy. He
had not long to wait. On the after-
noon of that day (May 30th) the ene-
my were within three miles of him,
and before night their mounted scouts
had driven him off and occupied the
site of the British camp for the night.

But the progress of the Americans
was not such as to give them the ad-
vantage they might have had by the
victory at Niagara. Indeed, in this
instance, as in many others during this
war, the incapacity of the American
leaders saved the British, and gave
them the only chance which such a
battle as Stony Creek could have
afforded. General Dearborn, who had
supreme command of the American
army of invasion, was much advanced
in years and was suffering from poor
health at this time. In his younger
days he had distinguished himself
in the Revolution as a man of ac-
tivity and daring, but he was now
almost in his dotage, and bad he even
possessed full powers of mind and
body, it is doubtful if his skill as a
tactician was equal to the occasion.

still more ill-panned.* It was only
after reports from
Canadian sources
had been brought
to himof Col. Proe-
tor’s being on his
way from the De-
troit frontier to
reinforce Vincent,
that Dearborn de-
cided on an imme-
diate pursuit, and
it is quite possible
the determination
would not have
been made then
had not General
Winder, his ablest
officer, made the
suggestion and
volunteered to
the service. Gen. Winder set out,
but took the wrong road, and had
to retrace his steps at a loss of
two days’ time. It was then thought
best to transport the troops by the
fleet to the shores of Burlington
Bay, but the Cabinet at Washing-
ton, who, happily for Canada, were
the directors of the campaign and took
away a great deal of the discretion of
its Generals, had ordered the fleet in
another direction. After two more
days spent in deliberations, Winder
was sent off again in pursuit of the
British, who were now resting on the
breezy heights at Burlington. The
brigade under his command included
a considerable body of infantry, with
Col. Burns’ detachment of cavalry
(250), and Archer’s and Towson’s artil-
lery. Taking the lake-road, he march-
ed to the Twenty-Mile Creek on the
Ist June, and here he heard the re-
ports circulating among the settlers
that reinforcements were coming to
the British from Kingston, as well as

*The old General was recalled just a month after the
battle of Stony Creek, and General Wilkinson, another old
and equally incompetent leader, appointed in his stead.

;
:
:

a

th
il-

he

the
‘old

TTS SA, TLE NY. or.

exe

from the west. He sent back to Dear-
born for further reinforcements, and
when these arrived, the invading army
consisted of divisions of the 5th, 13th,
14th, 16th, 20th and 25th regiments,
with artillery and cavalry, numbering
in all from 3,100 to 3,550 men. At
the head of the reinforcements was
Gen. Chandler, who, as senior officer,
now took chief command, and the
American army reached the “Forty”
on the night of the 4th June (or, ac-
cording to Lossing, the American his-
torian, on the morning of the 5th), and
from there moved on towards the
British encampment. The 5th of June
was a sultry day, and when the Amer-
ican army, late in the afternoon, came
to a spot about half a mile west of
Stony Creek, where a grassy vale
opened out on either side of the road,
with a clear stream meandering devi-
ously through the midst of it, they were
glad, after a body of them had ad-
vanced to the rough and thickly-
wooded yround beyond, to return and
make so pleasant a place their camp-
ing ground for the night. There were
signs of settlement hereabout, where
a few supplies could be got, and this
made the site readily favored ; more-
over, they learned the British camp on
the heights was only seven miles dis-
tant, and it was desirable to make the
attack in daylight in an enemy’s
country. Here, then, they would pitch
their tents and march to conquest on
the morrow.

While the main body rested here, a
division consisting of the 13th and
14th regiments and a company of ar-
tillery kept the lake road and camp-
ed on the shore near the mouth of
Stony Creek, to anticipate the move-
ments of the British fleet, which, it
was supposed, was on the way from
Kingston with fresh troops for Vin-
cent.*

During the afternoon there had been

*This separation of the lake division from the main
American army is no doubt one of the reasons for the dis-
crepancy in various histories as to the strength of the
American force. The number of Americans who partici-

pated in the fight would probably not be more than 2,800.

THE BATTLE OF STONY CREEK.

381

more or less skirmishing as the invad-
ing army moved on. Capt. Merritt
had gone into Vincent’s camp, but a
dragoon was posted here and there to
give notice of the advance. One of
these men, posted a distance below
Stony Creek, came riding through the
settlement in the afternoon, firing his
pistol and shouting that the enemy
was coming. As he was a notorious
liar, his report was received doubt-
fully. Another dragoon, John Brady,
who knew the country well, rode
eastward, but before he advanced half
a mile, suddenly came upon the ene-
my. Just before him, a deer-path ran
up the mountain, and rather than turn
tail and leave a tair mark for the foe,
he put spurs to his horse and dashed
forward to reach this deer-path. The
sight of a “solitary horseman” dash-
ing towards them must have bewild-
ered the American advance, who await-
ed his onset curiously. At first he was
somewhat screened from view by the
smoke of two “log heaps” burning by
the road, but when clear of this he
raised his musket, fired at the enemy
and dashed up the deer-path. The
Americans now understood the situa-
tion, and a volley was sent after him,
but their bullets whistled harmlessly
by or struck the intervening trees.
Brady climbed the mountain, and in
less than two hours was in Vincent’s
camp on the heights. The advance
cavalry of the Americans soon pranced
up before the village tavern, kept
then by Edward Brady, when, among
other things, they appropriated the
family’s bread that had been freshly
baked that afternoon. The clattering
of cavalry hoofs, the clanking of
sword, the heavy rattle of the artil-
lery wagons and the long and strange
array of invading soldiers struck the
inhabitants of the hamlet with won-
der, and when it was whispered about
that a battle was to be fought the
next day, the women and children
shut themselves up in their cabins
with consternation and foreboding.
It has been said that a body of the

382

Americans advanced beyond the spot
destined for their camping ground. A
detachment of their advance pene-
trated as far as the Red Hill, where
they narrowly escaped being captured
in an ambush laid by Capt. Williams
and a few men of the 49th Royal
Irish, who had been posted at Davis’
tavern to reconnoitre. Williams and
his men lay concealed in the under-
brush on the hill, but as the glit-
tering bayonets and cockaded hats of
the enemy came to view through the
shrubbery, one of the soldiers, forget-
ting his orders, tired, and set the
Americans in retreat, hastened by a
volley from the 49th’s party. In this
volley one American was killed and
another wounded, the latter being
taken into Davis, whence he was tak-
en away by an American surgeon to
their camp. It isrelated that some of
these Americans, on their way back
to the camp, stopped at a well to
drink. One of the men, pointing to
a fertile clearing before him, said to
his comrade, “I think I will take this
piece of land when Canada is conquer-
ed.” Vain anticipation! The God of
battles had willed
otherwise. This
poor fellow was
found next day
among the slain.
His country’s flag
was not destined
to float long over
those happy glades,
though he has a
pitiful six feet of
Canadian soil un-
der the apple-trees
whose blossoms still
decorate the graves
of the Americans
every returning 6th
of June.

When the Ameri-
can army arranged
their camp, a large body pitched their
tents in the open vale, but finding the
ground damp and boggy, moved up on
the high ground of the east bank with

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

STONY CREEK BURYING

the main body, leaving their camp fires
burning. The east bank, on the brow
of which thev lay, was about 15 feet
high and very steep, affording a good
position in case of attack. The road,
which was not graded at the hill as
now, was thoroughly protected by can-
non which were planted on the height
so as to sweep all before them over
the highway and vale, while the ar-
tillery horses stood ready harnessed in
case of action. The men were in-
structed to sleep on their arms, ready
for any emergency, and the whole
camp was well disposed, save that the
cavalry were stationed too far in the
rear for effective work in case of sur-
prisa An advance guard was posted
in a little church on the west side of
the valley, and sentries stationed here
and farther up the road, and -all the
residents of the immediate vicinity
were taken prisoners, some being con-
fined in a log cabin by the camp, lest
they should carry information to the
British. And so all seemed safe, and
soon the din of the camp subsided,
and the Americans, after the long,
tiresome march of the sultry Satur-

A nPop eae.

a) na

GROUND, FROM NEAR SITE OF THE OLD CHURCH.

day, settled into a sound and solid
sleep. There we will leave them while
we take a view of the surrounding
scenes.

memgeti

Sry

we we =

|
|
|
|
|

t

#

wy

The woody heights where the Brit-
ish camp lay, overlooked the head of
Burlington Bay. The camp itself was
only defended by rude earthworks,
protected outside by trees piled on one
another, with their branches pointing
outward, forming a sort of cheval de
Frise, and traces of these earthworks
may be seen to this day in a portion
of Hamilton cemetery. To the east-
ward before the camp spread a plain,
marshy in many places and covered
only with a growth of scrubby bog
oak; and probably not one of the
British dreamed, as the eye swept
from the Mountain to the Bay that
this was to be the site of a great man-
ufacturing city like Hamilton. Three
or four frame houses or log cabins
were, it is true, already planted along
or near the road, among them being
the tavern of a man named Barns,
situated at what is now the corner of
King and James-streets, in the heart
of the city: the houses of Ephraim
and Lieut. Robert Land and of George
Hamilton, from whom the city was
to take its name—but there was no
indication of the busy hives of indus-
try that were to arise on this plain, or
of the ships and steamers that were
to plow the virgin waters of yon blue
bay. Indeed, Stony Creek seemed

then more likely to become a seat of

trade than the Heights.

Along the banks of Stony Creek,
half a mile cast of the American camp,
three or four houses were built, and
up the creek, under. the foot of the
mountain where lived Adam Green
(from whom Greensville derived its
name), was a water power saw-mill
which supplied lumber for several
dwellings that were already erected
or were being built in the neighbor-
hood. Among these, James Gage’s
house and store, stili standing on the
site of the battle ground, were of quite
respectable dimensions—so much so
that they were appropriated by the
two American generals and their staffs
as headquarters for the night, while
Gage and his family were relegated to

THE BATTLE OF STONY CREEK. 383

the cellar. The house was a two story
one, and the store, though not large,
was the first and then the only one in
this-part of the country. On the other
side of the flat before Gage’s was an-
other respectable dwelling, while in a
log cabin by the roadside lived a man
named Lappin, in whose house, as
before said, some of the residents
were confined that night, while the
battle raged and the cannon thunder-
ed a few feet from them, though not
a hair of their heads was injured.
What was more indicative of future
urban life was the church that

Stood upon a hill, a gentle hill,

Green and of mild declivity,
on the western side of the flat and
near the centre of what is now the
Stony Creek burying ground. Scarcely
a tombstone saddened the aspect of
this charming spot, and the slaughter
ofthe Gth of June gave it its first
and most memorable start in popula-
tion. Death has done well since,
however, and the wide ground is
thickly enough peopled now with
graves new and grandly crowned,
graves old and _ neglected, graves
all forgotten. It was looking upon
this scene from the brow of Stony
Creek hill that George Johnson, a
Canadian poet, wrote the song that
was so popular from one end of the
continent to the other, years ago—
“When you and I were young, Mag-
gie ”—a verse of which ran :—
A city so silent and lone, Maggie,

Where the young and the gay and the best,
In polished white mansions of stone, Maggie,

Have each found a place of rest
Is built where the birds used to play, Maggie,

And join in the songs that were sung,

For we sang as gay as they, Maggie,

When you and I were young.

The dear little church was beloved
in those days, for it was the only place
of worship in this part of the country,
and is said to have been the oldest in
the western peninsula of Ontario,
except the Grand River stone chapel.
It was built by the labor of the U.E.
Loyalist settlers (chiefly Methodists),
and finished without money ; its clap-

384

boarded sides never saw paint, nor its
inside walls whitewash or plaster ; no
ornament glittered about its humble
altar, and no great chandeliers ever
shed their effulgent light on a fashion-
able congregation within its walls—no
organ, no cushioned pews; just the
plain board benches served the wor-
shippers here. Its only steeple was
the chimney top that towered over its
old fireplace. Long before the year
1800 settlers used to come a distance
of twenty or thirty miles to listen to
itinerant preachers, or services con-
ducted by some of their own number,

STONY CREEK FAT

which recalls the circumstance of a
rather remarkable inscription on the
walls in the early days. An itinerant
oe was expected one Sunday,
ut failed to appear, and his place in
the pulpit was taken by a man named
William Kent, whose character does
not seem to have inspired much re-
spect, as the next Sunday the follow-
ing verse was found written on the
wall :—

Last Sunday was a rainy day ;

No preacher came to preach or pray,
But the Devil in compassion sent
His humble servant, William Kent.

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

Years after the war, the old church—
which bore the marks of many a
bullet sent through its boards from the
battlefield—was refitted, and was still
considered the best church of the
neighborhood for a long time, but,
shame to tell it, the vandal hands of
those who had charge of the ground
tore it down in 1871, and modern
tombstones desecrate the site of what
should have been the dearest relic of
our heroic age.

But though there were these signs
of civilization, and the small clearings
of the settlers appeared here and

: oo = gee

we wt. 5
> “PRPs "the
. 4

% n ae y

LS, 120 FEET HIGH.

there, the whole plain stretching from
the head of the Lake to the Niagara
river was an almost unbroken wilder-
ness, and the rough and crooked road
that ran along at the foot of the
“ Mountain ”—the same escarpment
over which the great Niagara thun-
ders—was travelled almost as frequent-
ly by bears and other wild beasts as
by vehicles. Little could the soldiers
of this campaign have forecast the
changes that would take place in 80
years. The scene of the battlefield is
now covered with apple orchards, vine-
yards, and berry patches, while the

me

Sa oe ee ee ee. ee ee

§

jutted far out into the lake.

whole stretch of land from Hamil-
ton to Niagara, justly called the
garden of tke province, is one
long succession of orchards, vineyards
and fruitful farms. There was one
other feature of the landscape which
deserves notice. The lake road re-
ferred to in this sketch was then
the chief thoroughfare from the Nia-
gara river to Burlington Heights.
For the most part it followed the
windings of the shore, but occasionally
cut through the woods where a cape
But
yard by yard the banks yielded before
the batteries of Ontario's waves dur-
ing the north-easters till the road was
cut off in many places, and one by one
the roadside houses and their sur-
rounding orchards disappeared, till at
this day there is not more than one or
two bits of the old lake road left from
Niagara to Burlington. Not one in
ten of the younger generation of resi-
dents of the Niagara peninsula even
know that such a road ever existed.
Had the conduct of affairs at the
Heights been left to Gen. Vincent, the
battle would never have taken place
at Stony Creek, and the chances
would have been enormously against
the British, but Col. Harvey had the
instinets of a great military leader, and
with a clear foresight saw that a blow
must be struck that very night, if at
all possible. He had been informed
by scouts of the general movement of
the Americans during the afternoon,
but wished to make a reconnaissance
in person in order to press his views
on the general. Taking Ensigns
George and McKenny, two of Capt.
Merritt’s men, with one or two men
of the neighborhood who knew the
ground,he set out towardsevening with
the light companies of the 49th, and
met Capt. Williams’ company on the
west bank of the Big Creek, about three
miles west of the enemy’s camp.
While he and McKenny and George
were ascending the east bank of the
Big Creek (near where Williams’
ambush had been laid) in advance of

THE BATTLE OF STONY CREEK.

335

the men, they came upon an American
with a British prisoner. The Ameri-
can levelled his gun to fire on them,
when Col. Harvey called out to the
British soldier to seize him, which
order was no sooner given than the
British soldier had the gun in his
hand, and the captor was made cap-
tive. The British soldier had strayed
from the road earlier in the day, and
returned without knowing the enemy
had advaneed so far, and so was seized
by one of the American advance. At
dusk the reconnoitring party . went
cautiously forward to a position where
they could view the enemy. Return-
ing to the general, Col. Harvey pre-
sented all the weak points of the
enemy’s position in the most forcible
terms in order to secure the command-
er’s consent to his proposition for a
night attack.* He represented that
the American encampment was scat-
tered and disconnected, that the artil-
lery was poorly supported, and the
cavalry so placed in the rear of the
artillery as to be useless. The colonel
at the same time showed the hopeless-
ness of any prolonged contest if they
waited on the Heights, for there was
only ammunition left for 90 rounds
per man,t while a battle in daylight
would expose the weakness of the
British foree in numbers. Lieut. Fitz-
gibbon, of the 49th, is reported to have
disguised himself as a settler, and to
have gone into the American camp in
the afternoon with a basket of butter,
in the sale of which he walked through
the camp, and got a view of their
position and numbers,* and if this
report be true, that officer would no
doubt join his advice to Col. Harvey’s.
General Vincent consented to the night
attack, and wisely left the command
of the assault to Col. Harvey himself.

“Capt. Merritt credits his two ensigns with first making
the suggestion for a night attack, but the object implied
by the Colonel's reconnaissance makes this claim ques-
tionable.

tAmmunition was so scarce that on the day before, which
was the King’s birthday, they could not afford to fire the
usual salute.

tJ. H. Land, in Transactions of Wentworth Historical
Society, 1892.

386

An order to move started the sleep-
ing officers and men from the grass
whereon they were reposing, and
instantly the camp was alive with
preparation to march. The men told
off for this adventurous action con-
sisted of five companies of the 8th or
King’s regiment, under Major Ogilvie,
and five companies of the 49th regi-

ON STONY CREEK.

ment under Major Plenderleath, with a
few militia, numbering, according to
the official report, 704 in all—a small
band to assail an army of over 3,000.
It was about helf-past ten that the
last of the brave seven hundred and
four disappeared from the waning
lights of the British camp down the
lonely road towards Stony Creek. To
prevent the possibility of a miscarriage
like that of Capt. Williams’ ambuscade
in the afternoon, the flints were taken
out of the muskets and the men
enjoined to march with the greatest
caution. On arriving at the road
leading down to Burlington Beach
and the old lake road, Col. Harvey
asked Lieut. Land of the 3rd Gore
Militia to take a detachment of his
men and march down to a point
where he could watch the movements
of the wing of the enemy camped on
the lake shore, as a strange sail had
been noticed coming in during the
afternoon and apparently landing re-
inforcements. Lieut. Land readily

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

took the duty, and Capt. Elijah Secord
was despatched to the brow of the
mountain to watch there. Stealthily
the British took their way down the
sinuous road beneath the forest trees
that walled them in on either side,
and which in places arched together
overhead, shutting them up in pro-
found darkness. Not a word was
spoken, not a
sound escaped
their ranks as
they stole down
the west bank
of the Big Creek,
and then up the
eastern bank
like a troop of
spirit warriors.
Just as they ar-
rived at Davis’
Tavern on the
hill, the slumber-
ing echoes of the
woods woke with
the sound of a
gun in the very
direction of the enemy. The whole
body halted almost without the word
of command. What if it should be
an alarm from the American camp ?
The officers consulted ; some informa-
tion was gleaned from Davis; and
while the cause of the firing was doubt-
ful, it was decided, in order to make
silence and secrecy of march more sure,
to have the charges withdrawn from
the guns.

They now formed into sections,
with Col. Harvey and the light com-
panies of the 49th in the van, and
Gen. Vincent at the head of the rear
column. Their movements had now
to be made with still greater caution,
for it was not certain whether the gun
that had been fired had not alarmed
the enemy. As the day had been
sultry, so the night was close and
muggy. Occasionally distant flashes
of “heat-lightning” flared fitfully
against the stagnant clouds, and
faintly lit the tops of the trees. The
suspense of the rest of the march was

+ SER:

RK LOGIE.

awe

|

SOMES

a Cm .. tbe bebe oO

rd
he
ly
he
eS
le,
er
"0-
as

ed
as
wn

nk

he

nk

rs.
ur-
--§
‘is
he
er-

ith

Ty
le
rd
be

a-
nd
»t-
ke
re,
m

ns

nd
ar
yw

an
ed
en
nd
es

ad

he

ER:

SS ETRE 3,

ae

THE

painful to the bravest. Had there
been the faint whisper of a breeze,
the nerves would have had some
relief from the strain, but the silence
was deep and deadly, andif the oceas-
sional startling cry of some distant
night bird or wild animal was heard,
it only accentuated the stillness, and
added a twinge of torture to the over-
wrought nerves. Yet so lightly did
the men tread that they could scarcely
hear their own footsteps. At the head
of the column still walked Harvey, as
they neared the enemy’s camp, while
beside and behind him were three or
four who had been over the ground
in the afternoon. It was two hours
past midnight, but they had seemed a
week of nights on this march.

“We are near the enemy’s camp,
sir,’ whispered a man of the 49th at
Harvey’s hand.

“ Hush, I know it!”
reply.

His judgment was right, for it was
not long before a sentry challenged
them with, “ who comes there?” “A
friend,” was the reply. Lieut. Dan-
ford sprang forward and killed him
with a bayonet so quickly that no
alarm was raised. His bleeding corpse
was cast aside, and they moved on
with the same silence as_ before.
Another challenge, “who comes there ?”
—another rush and the second sentinel
is transfixed ; but he dies harder, and
his groans of agony alarm the third
sentry who stood down near the watch
fires. He challenged, but without
waiting for a reply fired and fled.*

The suspense was at last over.
That shot was to Harvey the signal for
action. Not a moment was now to be
lost, and the colonel, whose plans had
been perfectly organized, ordered his
men to deploy into line. He and
Lieut. Fitzgibbon were to take the
road straight ahead. Major Plender-
leath was to sweep round to the left in
the flat, and Major Ogilvie, with a part
of the 49th, was to open to the right
and act upon the enemy’s flank, in
which direction was Gage’s ine

was the colonel’s

SATTLE OF

STONY CREEK. 387

where the two American generals
were quartered. While these move-
ments were being swiftly made, the
sentry who stood at the church door
was approached in the deep shadow of
the trees and killed, and the whole
party inside, numbering about fifty—
who were lying about the church with

their heads peacefully pillowed on

their coats and boots—were made
prisoners

Freed from the restraint of their
long silence and suspense, the British
burst into the flats with wild and
terrific yells that seemed to shake the
woods, and sounded on the astonished
ears of the yet half-awakened Ameri-
cans like a legion of Indians.- Lieut.
Fitzgibbon dashed up to the cannon
so threateningly planted on the brow
of the hill in the road, saw that the
artillerymen were not yet by them,
hurried back and ordered the captain
of the first company to charge upon
them. While the company were going
at the double quick to the guns, and
before they had got twenty yards, an
American gunner sprang forward to
touch one of the guns. It hung fire;
the captain yelled to his men to “break

*There is a great conflict of testimony as to whether the
countersign was obtained by the British and how the sen
tries were killed. Lossing in his ‘* Pictorial Field Book of
the war of 1812” vives the American version that the
countersign was obtained ‘‘ by one of the inhabitants of
the neighborhood who treacherously joined the Americans
and deserted.” P. S. Van Wagner, long a resident of the
neighborhood, wives this account on the authority of a
participant, ‘* Peter Carman (a settler living below Stony
Creek) was taken prisoner by the Americans for not let
ting them know where the British were camped. He
taffied up the soldiers who had him in charge, and they let
him ge, giving hin the countersign to enable him to pass
out of the car ip. He gave the countersign to Wm. Green,
a scout, who took it to the British.” Inthe account which
this Wm. Green gave the writer years ago he made no
mention of this incident, which one would think he would
not have forgotten. Reyarding the killing of the sentinels,
J. H. Land, in the sketch referred to, says the Colonel
himself ‘‘ spurred forward and clove him (the first sentinel)
to the chin with his sabre.” Another report from a man
who was orderiy to Capt. Steele, says that officer, who was
in the van, after passing the sentry wheeled round on the
man as he was unsuspectingly resuming his march, and
clove his skull with his broadsword, the second sentry
being served in the same way. Col. Harvey’s own account
to Col. Baynes is this: ‘‘In conformity with directions I
had given, the sentries at the outskirts of the enemy's
camp were bayoneted in the quietest manner, and the
camp immediately stormed.”

+ It was the firm impression of most of the Americans
that a large body of Indians took part in the fight. This
impression was confirmed when, during the charge in
which the cannon were captured, some one in the British
ranks, to give effect to the onset, yelled, ‘‘come on, Brant.’
Neither Brant nor his Indians, however, were anywhere
near.

388

off from the centre or they would all
be killed,” but the words had scarcely
escaped his lips before the thundering
explosion came, and he himself and
two of his officers lay dead in the road.
Major Plenderleath follows up the

charge towards the guns. There is
confusion in the darkness, but he soon
rallies his men, and up the hill they
rush into the very mouths of the
cannon. The American artillerymen
have just recovered from their daze
sufficiently to gather at the guns, but
the foremost of them are run through
by the bayonets of the British, while
the others quailed and fled before the
fierce charge. The guns were now in
the hands of the British, who turned
them upon their foes. As Major
Ogilvie charged up towards Gage’s
house, 500 of the enemy who were
camped in the lane connected with the
road, flew madly up the hill, leaving
their blankets, knapsacks and some of
their arms behind them and seeking
shelter in the woods. While these
scenes were being enacted the main
body of the British halted at the
camp fires _ still
burning in the flat
and sought their
light to replace
their flints and
reload. Feeble as
this light was, it
was enough to re-
veal the forms of
the soldiers to the
Americans, who
had now recover-
ed from their first
panic. While the
British were still
loading, the dark
hill before them
was suddenly il-
luminated far and
near with a crashing volley from
the whole American line. Follow-
ing the dreadful flash and crash came
a desolate silence, broken after a mo-
ment by the groans of wounded and
dying, and by the clinking of ram-

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

rods along the American lines. A faint
“click-click-click”” rattled along the
gloomy hill, succeeded by another
echoing roar and a shock of artillery.
Again the trees, the tents, and all
about live as in momentary day, and
again the rain of bullets is followed
by moans and dying words among the
British. They were a cruelly, plain
mark, standing before their camp fires,
with a foe so well posted scarce a hun-
dred yards away. Yet the brave 8th and
49th never flinched, but soon gave back
their volleys from below. Fora while
now there is an incessant roar and
rattle from hill and vale, and a dull
flame from many rifles throws a glow-
ering light on the battlefield.

The guard at the little cabin door
near the foot of the hill had, of course,
fled with the first onset of the British,
and now directly in the face of the
tire, four of the men who had been
confined therein were seen running ex-
citedly to the British. Strange to say,
they reached the lines and came out
safely.

The left wing of the British did not

ps se ee By ee
M . bat

THE BATTLE GROUND, LOOKING TO EAST BANK.

stand longin the flat, but charged across
itand up the hill, in the face of their
foes, to such a purpose, that the Ameri-
can lines were broken and would soon
have been put in utter disorder had not
General Chandler, seeing the danger,

7" EEN TT, RST ee

|

hasti
doin
was
and
was
whit
left,
artil
canr
the
the.
Fras
wou
rece
ing
ly d
one!
Wir
Van
trac
up :
now
cav:
cut
Bri
the
for
the
ere
reig
fiel
pri
wa

nt
1e
er
y-
1]
1d

1e
in

n-
dd
-k
le
1d
1

V-

BSS

eo

EITC ae, SALE LOOT

RRA ea

SRP RB

hastened across to rally his men. In
doing so his horse stumbled and he
was hurt, but he recovered himself,
and having restored his men to order,
was hurrying back to resist the charge
which was creating disorder on his
left, when he noticed confusion at the
artillery. He was not aware that the
cannon were already in the hands of
the British, and he advanced to ask
the cause of the confusion. Sergeant
Fraser was just then binding up the
wounds which Major Plenderleath had
received in his brave charge, and, see-
ing it was an American officer, prompt-
ly disarmed him and took him pris-
oner. It was not long before General
Winder and one of his officers, Major
Van de Venter,came along,and being at-
tracted to the same situation, advanced
up and were made prisoners also. All
now became confusion. Col. Burns’
cavalry at last got into the fray, and
cut their way through a portion of the
British lines; then sweeping round
they fell on their own infantry, and
for several minutes were cutting at
the 16th regiment before they discov-
ered the mistake. This confusion
reigned more or less over the whole
field, and about 50 of the 49th became
prisoners to the Americans in this
way, while a number of the latter fell
into the hands of the British. The
Americans now began to retire before
the repeated charges of the British,
who were left virtually in possession
of the field within an hour of their first
onset, having captured, the two gener-
als, 7 superior officers and about 116
subalterns and men, with four guns.
Two of the guns, however, were spiked
and left on the field, as the British had
no horses to take them away. Before
day dawned, Col. Harvey deemed it
prudent to withdraw to the heights,
and not expose the weakness of his
force to the enemy.

When daylight came, Capt. Merritt
was sent down to ascertain what had
become of General Vincent, who had
been mysteriously missing. He ar-
rived on the scene, and was view-

THE BATTLE OF STONY CREEK. 389

ing the evidences of the carnage, not
thinking of the enemy, when he was
accosted by an American sentinel
under Gage’s house with, “ Who goes
there?” At this unexpected chal-
lenge he was about to surrender, when
he bethought himself of a ruse, and,
riding up to the sentinel, asked,
“ Who placed you there?” Supposing
Merritt to be one of their own officers,
the guard said he was put there by the
captain who had gone into the house
with a party of men. Merritt asked
if he had found the British general
yet, at the same time getting out his
pistol and levelling it at the man, who
dropped his gun at the sight and gave
himself up. Just then a man without
any gun ran down the hill. Capt.
Merritt called him, and he obeyed.
With the two prisoners, he quietly left
the place unnoticed by the party in
the house. He returned to the heights
without finding the general, who,
however, turned up during the day,
half famished, and without horse, hat
or sword.

A large body of the Americans ap-
peared on the field between seven and
eight o’clock and proceeded to destroy
the provisions, carriages, arms, blank-
ets, ete., which they could not take,
and then retreated, leaving their own
dead to be buried by the British. As
they passed from the scene of their
discomfiture, their band struck up the
then popular air, “In My Cottage
Near the Wood,” and to this lively
tune the disordered army left the
hamlet of Stony Creek forever. The
triumph of this day was celebrated
among the Loyalists afterwards by a
song sung to the tune of “ Yankee
Doodle,” a stanza of which was as fol-
lows :—

And if they ever come again,

They'll get what they don’t seek, sir,

Just what they got at Lundy’s Lane,

And also Stony Creek, sir.

The main body of the Americans
retreated in disorder to Forty Mile
Creek, the road thither being strewn
with baggage, arms and equipments—

thrown away to make their flight
easier. The American division that
had camped on the beach heard the
noise of the tight, and, without wait-
ing to learn which way the tide of

battle was turning, took alarm and
beat a retreat back to the: “ Forty,”
where they joined the main body.
Here they were joined by a consider-
able body of reinforcements under

390 THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

Generals Lewis and Boyd. The total
force now actually numbered more
than during their advance to Stony
Creek, but such was the terror inspir-
ed by the midnight carnage they had

just gone through, that the
only thought was now of re-
treat. ‘At day-light on the
next morning (7th June), two
small British schooners from
the squadron that had come
up from Kingston, under Sir
James Yeo, were seen out in
the lake opposite the American
camp trying to get into range.
As the dead calm of the morn-
ing continued, the impatient
tars took to their boats and
towed the schooners into range.
Along the shore were a number
of batteaux in which the Am-
ericans had their stores, and to
protect these a furnace was
fitted up for hot shot. The
British schooners seeing this
drew off. Sir James Yeo then
sent a messenger under a flag
and summoned General Lewis
to surrender, informing hiin of
the fleet that was coming, of
reinfurcements that would be
at hand from the West, and
the Indians at hand—a land
of whom indeed, were firing
ineffectual shots from the brow
of the mountain. Seeing the
smallness of the visible torce,
however, General Lewis sent
back word that the request
was too ridiculous to consider
—as in tact it was. The de-
mand must have had a moral
effect, however, for prepar-
ations were soon being made
to retreat to Fort George, and
the next morning, after being
harrowed with apprehensions
of an Indian attack, they de-

parted, leaving behind them 500 tents,
100 stand of arms, 140 barrels of flour,
and 70 wounded men, who were taken
care of by the British. The American
boats were loaded with stores and

5 ity

push
Geor
the |
chase
with
main
dese!
flyin
Tl
Sun
scen
the
Cree
Ame
lake
sail
tact,
stall
bloo
ing
all t
yeal
the
not
own
day
mer
gag!
gro
econ
veh
—a
mot
can
sley
the
roa
cha
erit
gra
the
the
ma
me
me
spc
err
of
md
wt
sh
ow
ho

id

ni
Un

id

pushed off at the same time for Fort
George under a guard of 200 men, but
the British schooner Beresford gave
chase and captured twelve of them
with their contents, while the re-
mainder (five) were driven ashore and
deserted by the crews, who joined the
flying army.

The bright sun of a calm June
Sunday looked down on a rueful
scene of wreckage and death, when
the British came down to Stony
Creek to bury their own and the
American dead, and the complacent
lake refused to raise a ripple or stir a
sail to bring the war vevsels in con-
tact, lest its pure waters should be
stained with the blood of brothers,
blood thatthe pityingearth was hasten-
ing to dry up out of sight. For after
all they were brothers, these foes of a
year, and wherein would have been
the glory of Stony Creek if we had
not been fighting in defence of our
own land? Many came during the
day to witness the scene, and to find
men, horses, guns, swords and _ bag-
gage strewn in every part of the
ground. The bodies of the dead were
conveyed to their graves on the only
vehicle at hand—an old wooden sleigh
—and the settlers assisted in the
mournful task. Most of the Ameri-
cans were buried where they had
slept the night before, on the brow of
the hill to the north of the present
road, now covered by an apple or-
chard. The British, with a few Am-
ericans, rest in the lower part of the
graveyard, close to the spot whereon
the old church stood. It was not till
the year 1889 that any attempt was
made to consecrate this spot to the
memory of our country. As a rule,
men of the country would pass the
spot with the indifference that a mod-
ern Greek would look upon the Pass
of Thermopyle, and till now the only
monuments were the apple trees
which each returning sixth of June
shook the snowy laurels from their
own heads to sanctify the spot and do
honor to the anniversary. Now at

THE BATTLE OF

STONY CREEK. 391
last, however, there is a suitable mon-
ument to the heroes of Stony Creek.

As to the nuinbers killed and wound-
ed, Col. Harvey’s report on the Brit-
ish side is: “One lieutenant, 3 ser-
geants, 19 rank and file killed; 2
majors, 5 captains, 2 lieutenants, 1
ensign, 1 adjutant, 1 fort major, 9
sergeants, 2 drummers and 113 rank
and file wounded; 3 sergeants and
52 rank and tile missing.” Lossing
gives the American loss at 17 killed,
38 wounded and 99 missing ; but in-
asmuch as the Americans left their
dead to be buried by the British, their
official reports may not be held to be
accurate. The British, no doubt, suf-
fered more severely than the Ameri-
cans, which is accounted for by their
long exposure before the light of the
camp fires, while preparing to return
the fire. From the position of the
dead and wounded in the morning, it
was known that they lost as much
from those two first volleys as in all
the rest of the fight. Most of the
Americans were killed and wounded
with bayonets—a stern testimony to
the courage of the British.

The uneasy feeling of the Ameri-
cans in Fort George, their final evacu-
ation of it and the other posts on the
Canadian side of the river, and the
retaliation of the British in the inva-
sion of the State of New York, are
known to most of those who have
read the history of this war, and the
turn of these events may be ascribed
to the effect of the battle of Stony
Creek.

Next to Brock himself, no braver
character than Col. Harvey figured in
the war of 1812, and it seems very
remarkable that so little is known of
him, and so scant are the records of
his exploits in either Canadian or
English works. There is not a word
about him in the standard work of
British national biography, while the
portrait that accompanies this sketch
is the first that has appeared in any
Canadian book or magazine. Yet he
figured heroically in a score of battles

392

in 1812-15, including Lundy’s Lane
and Chrysler’ss Farm. He was after-
wards Governor of three different
provinces’ of Canada, besides New-
foundland, while abroad he fought
the battles of Britain in Holland,
at the Cape, in Egypt, and in India.
Colonel (afterwards Sir John) Harvey
was born in 1778, and entered the
army as an ensign in the 80th regi-
ment under Lord Paget, whose natural
son he was reputed to be. He was
only 16 when he joined the army, and
in his first year in the service he car-
ried the colors in an action with the
French, winning the praises of his
commander. He went through the
severe campaign in Holland in that
year, and on the coast of France at
Dieu and Queberon in 1795. In 1796
he was at the Cape, and was present
when the Dutch fleet was captured
at Saldanha Bay. Then he was sta-
tioned three years in Ceylon, and from
there went to Egypt, where he was
major of brigade, under Sir David
Baird. Returning to India in 1802,
he was appointed to a captaincy, and
the next year was promoted to be
aide-de-camp and military secretary
to General Dowdeswell in the Mah-
ratta war. The army was under the
personal command of Lord Lake, and
here he met one of Lord Lake’s daugh-
ters, whose hand he obtained in mar-
riage in 1806. With health somewhat
impaired by hard service in hot cli-
mates, he returned to England, where
he filled various military appoint-
ments in England and Ireland. On
the breaking out of the war in 1812
he was appointed (just a year before
the battle of Stony Creek) Deputy
Adjutant-General of the forces in
Canada, and arrived at Halifax 14th
Dec., 1812. True to his character for
promptness and vigor, he set off the
the very day of, or day after, his ar-
rival to make the journey overland to
Quebec, a journey toilsome enough in
the best weather then, but perilous in
the winter.

In the manuscript despatches of

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

the war, he is repeatedly mentioned,
not only for his courage and personal
bravery, but for his coolness and judg-
ment in the midst of difficuity and
danger. In one of his letters, written
while Fort George was being attacked,
he remarks that, “ We have been ean-
nonaded since daylight;” and then
with a steady pen he gives a brief
but perfectly clear review of the
whole situation. He received a
medal for his action at Chrvsler’s
Farm, which victory was largely due
to his bravery and skill. Had he
been in supreme command in Upper
Canada, the story of the British arms
would have been a record of greater
glory than it is. To show his discern-
ment of the situation, which his su-
perior officers had not grasped, he writes
to Col. Baynes on the 11th June, when
he was occupying the deserted Ameri-
can camp at the “Forty:” “The
panick of the American army, you
will perceive, has been most complete,
and had the whole of this division
been at hand to take advantage of it,
doubtless very many prisoners might
have been taken, and probably some
more guns. * * * As long as the
fleet is triumphant, it [the pos.tion]
is a secure one. Should any disaster
(which God forbid) befall that, we
have no longer any business here in
this part of Canada. * * * Be
cautious of exchanging General Win-
der (my prisoner). He possesses more
talent than all the Yankee generals
put together.” Again, when his opin-
ion was asked by Sir George Prevost
as to the best means of defence on the
long-exposed frontier, Col. Harvey re-
plied promptly: “ First, by the accu-
rate intelligence of the designs and
movements of the enemy, to be pro-
cured at any price. And, secondly,
by a series ofbold, active, offensive
operations, by which the enemy, how-
ever superior in numbers, would him-
self be thrown on the defensive.”
The events of the war showed that in
every case where this policy was fol-
lowed, it was completely successful,

SIRT ON IE ES A I
RA ON a ci TIT NB FR STE

a LEI OE I a

ht
ne

he

er
ve

TE ee Sa e RETEST RE STI A OO

qe

and Stony Creek, where he had full
command, was a brilliant example of
his tactics.

In February, 1836, Col. Harvey was
appointed Governor of Prince Edward
Island, and in August of the same
year was made a major-general. From
1837 to 1841 he was Governor of
New Brunswick. Meantime in 1838
he received the honor of Knight Com-
mander of the Bath. In 1841 he was
appointed Governor of Newfoundland,
and the next year was made a Knight
Commander ofthe Hanoverian Guelph-
ic Order. In 1846 he was appointed
Governor of Nova Scotia,and remained
there till he died. He had three sons,
(the first, born in 1809, became Sir
George Frederick Harvey and served
in the Indian mutiny), all of whom,
it is said, met violent deaths. His
wife died in 1851 at Halifax, and he
died at the age of 74 in the same
city. Halifax, at least, has done some
honor to the memory of this hero, for
there, in the historic church of St.
Paul, is a tablet to himself, his wife
and his youngest son, who died at 23,
and was buried at sea near Kingston,
Jamaica. The tablet to Sir John* is
as follows:

*¥or a copy of this inscription and for the portrait I am
ndebted to Mr. John J. Stewart, of the Halifax Herald.

THE BATTLE OF STONY CREEK.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY
of
LIEUTENANT-GENERAL Sik JOHN Harvey,
Knight Commander of the Most Honorable Order
of the Bath and of the Guelph Order of
Hanover,
Who, during a period of nearly 60 years, ex-
tending from A.D. 1791 to A.D. 1852,
served his Sovereign and his

country
WITH HONOR, GALLANTRY AND DISTINCTION,

in various high offices of Trust and Responsi-
bility, Military and Civil,

Having in time of war done his duty as a soldier,
in Holland, in India, in Egypt, and in
North America.

It was subsequently his lot, in time of peace,
to govern the British Colonies of
Prince Edward’s Island, New Brunswick,
Newfoundland and Nova Scotia,

Dying at Halifax, N.S.,

ON 22np Marcu, 1852, AGED 74.

A loyal subject, a warm friend, a devoted hus-
band, an affectionate parent, an honest

man, a sincere Christian.

I have fought the good fight, I have finished my

course, [ have kept the faith.—2 Tim., c. iv.,
v. 7

THE AUTOMATIC MAID-OF-ALL-WORK.

A Possible Tale of the Near Future.

BY M. L. CAMPBELL.

Yes; I mean what I say—an auto-
matic maid-of-all-work, invented by
my husband, John Matheson.

You see it was this way,—the old
story of servants, ever since we began
housekeeping. We've had every kind,
and if we did get a good one, some-
thing would come along to take her
off.

You know John has invented lots ot
things. ‘There’s that door-spring now,
—not much when you look at it but
it brings in quite a little income. He
used to say that he was spending his
spare time on an automatic maid-of-all-
work. Of course, I laughed, said I
wished he would, and thought no more
of it.

Well, the day the last girl left, John
announced that the automatic maid-
of-all-work was completed, and that
he would stay at home next day and
show me how to work it.

Of course, 1 didn’t believe in it.

It was a queer-looking thing, with
its long arms, for all the world like
one of those old-fashioned wind-mills
you see in pictures of foreign coun-
tries. It hada face like one of those
twenty-four hour clocks, only there
were no hands; each number was
a sort of electric button. It was run
by electricity, youknow. The battery
was inside. I didn’t understand it
very well; I never could see into any-
thing in the way of machinery; I
never pretend to listen when John
tells me about his inventions. The
figures, as | said, were buttons, and
you just had to connect them with
some wires inside. There were a lot
of wires, each for some kind of work
which would be done at the hour indi-
cated by the button you connected it

with. This was handy, so that we
would not have to get up in the morn-
ing till breakfast-time, and would be
handy in lots of ways.

“Now look, Fanny,” said John ; “ do
try and understand how it works.
You see this wire now; I'll connect it
with button number six, and at that
hour the maid will light the fire, sweep
the kitchen and then the dining-room.
Now this button number seven will
be the one to set thealarm to. It will
sound for about ten minutes (I'd sound
it now only it makes a fearful noise) ;
then the maid will go upstairs to turn
down the beds—a convenient arrange-
ment in many ways. Then it will go
downstairs, lay the cloth for breakfast,
make the tea and toast, bring in the
things, and ring the breakfast bell.
You'll have to leave all the breakfast
things on one shelf, of course, and
measure the oatmeal and tea also. We
won't set any more buttons to-night.
It’s just as well to be around at first to
see that all goes right. There may be
some adjustment necessary.”

We went to bed then, and it was
daylight when I awoke. I was con-
scious of a peculiar whirring noise,
but I hadn't got thoroughly awakened
when I heard the most awful screams
and thumps, and the two boys came
running into our room in their night-
dresses, and after them the automatic
maid-of-all-work.

By this time I was out of bed, but
John sleeps very soundly. He started
as the maid jerked the bed-clothes
down and laid them over the foot-
board, but he wasn’t quick enough. It
took him under the arm. It had an
awful grip, too,—and laid him across
the foot-board, after giving him a

OSS

pre NE 5 HIT

thump or two, as I do the pillows.
(John had watched me do it and had
the thing to perfection. He didn’t
suppose it would be tried on him.
though). He didn’t seem quite pre-
pared for such a performance, for he
flounced around so that he and the
bed-clothes, pillows and all, landed in
a heap on the floor.

By this time the boys had got over
their fright, having been treated in the
same manner, and we all laughed.
John can’t bear to be laughed at.
However, we proceeded to dress after
the maid had gone downstairs. I could
see John was a little nervous, but he
didn’t want to show it, so he waited
till I was ready. The boys got down
first, and we could hear them laughing.

“T dare say you'll have to arrange
the table a little, Fanny,” said John, as
we went down, “but that won’t be
much to do when all the things are on.”

Well, we went into the dining-room,
and sure enough the table was set,
and pretty well too, only that the but-
ter dish, with the butter, was upside
down on the table, and the coal-scuttle
was set at John’s place, instead of the
oatmeal dish. That was because John,
who always leaves things in ridiculous
places, had left it standing on the back
of the stove after putting in the coal
ready for the morning fire. The por-
ridge was standing cooked on the
stove. We had got an arrangement
with a white earthen bowl set into a
kettle, and the bowl had just to be re-
moved and carried in. However, the
coal scuttle had stood in the way, and
John had to carry it out and bring in
the porridge. The toast was scorched
a little, but the eggs were boiled just
to perfection, and we enjoyed it all
immensely.

Meanwhile the maid was upstairs
making the beds, and such beds you
never saw. You'd think they’d been
cast in a mould. The maid came
downstairs just as we were through,
and then John pulled another wire.
After doing so he acted rather strange-
ly. He didn’t seem to be able to let

E

THE AUTOMATIC MAID-OF-ALL-WORK.

395

go the wire fora minute. It gave him
a shock, you know. After that he
handled the wires more carefully.

Then the maid proceeded to clear
the table. Here was a slight compli-
cation, however, for the maid washed
everything, and though we had eaten
up nearly all, still there was some but-
ter in the dish, a bowl of sugar, and
the salt-cellar. However, as there was
lots of good hot water, the dishes after
they were wiped were as clean as
could be; but John suggested that for
the present, until he could make some
improvements, the eatables had better
be removed first, for “of course,” he
said, “there will be some imperfec-
tions.”

“ Now, Fanny, I suppose you want
to wash, don’t you? You have the
clothes ready, I see.”

“ Yes, but it seems to me the dining-
room is not swept very clean. Any way
the crumbs ought to be swept up.”

“Exactly,” returned John, “only,
you see, I tixed it so that it would just
run around the table once before
breakfast, then afterwards you can
have all the furniture moved out and
the whole room swept every day.”

Well, the maid proceeded to remove
the furniture. It went to the middle
of the room, then began to circle
around, removing everything it came
in contact with, and setting things out
in the hall. John dropped the leaves
of the table, and all went well till it
came to the stove and attempted to
remove that also; but something was
amiss,and it veered off to one side. John
started forward to turn it off that
track, but it promptly picked him up
and removed him. I forgot to say
that a revolving brush in the bottom
was sweeping all this time, and now
the thing was making the last circuit
as I thought, for it had touched the
wall on three sides, and I was wonder-
ing how it would get into the corners,
while John watched the stove, and
wondered if it could pass between that
and the wall without coming in con-
tact with the stove. But there the

396

passage was not wide enough, and the
stove, a little open grate, was picked
up and removed. The pipes fell down
and made a lot of dirt, but that was
pretty well swept up, as the maid had
to make two or three more circles to
allow for the corners. John replaced
the furniture, as he had not provided
for that part of the work. The stove
we decided to carry out for the season,
but in the meantime he had started
the maid at the washing. You see
there was no time lost between things ;
and I tell you those clothes were wash-
ed, and so was John’s coat, which be-
ing a pretty good one he had taken
oft and laid on the bench. Then we
had the kitchen scrubbed, the same
apparatus which did the sweeping do-
ing that also. John adjusted it so that
the furniture was merely pushed aside.
The worst of the thing was that yon
could not stop the maid, when it got
going, till it had run down, and what
was more, if you interfered with the

wires when it was going, you were apt
to get ashock from the battery. This
was inconvenient sometimes; for in-

stance, after the kitchen was all
scrubbed, the thing still ran around
the walls scrubbing as hard as ever.
John said the only thing was to
pull another wire and set it to work
at something else; it would run till
after the tea dishes were washed, any-
way, and probably we could find some-
thing harmless to keep it employed.
Just then John was cailed out to speak
to a man about some coal, and I under-
took to head the thing across the
middle of the room. Unfortunately it
rushed straight into the dining-room,
water-pail and all. I didn’t care
much. I wanted a new carpet for
that room, anyway, and I knew that
sooty spot would never come out. The
water in the pail was very dirty by
this time. John had not thought of
its having to be changed.

Presently John returned, and we
got into the kitchen again. There was
another funny thing about it. When-
ever anyone got going ahead of it in

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

the same direction it was sure to fol-
low, and the only way to get out of
its road was to double back on your
own track and dodge it. It was the
current of air it followed. John said
he had a reason for making it that
way. While sweeping the kitchen it
got after one of the boys once, and it
dodged around tables and chairs jus
as he did, till John told him to tur
and go back. It got after Bruno wher
we got it out of the dining-room int:
the kitchen. He had just come in
from the barn to get something to eat
He turned tail and howled, but he
could not get out of the way till he
jumped out of the window. The cat
fared worse than Bruno though, for
she was picked up along with the wip-
ing cloth and rubbed over the floor
for about three yards before she man-
aged to get free. There was quite a
hole in the window, and we have not
seen the cat since.

John said there was a fine arrange
ment for answering the door Of
course, in some instances, we would
have to go ourselves, especially if any
old lady or timid person, who had not
made the acquaintance of the maid,
were expected, but if the postman or
parcel delivery it would be all right.
Anyone could send in a card, too, you
see. But the best of all was the ar-
rangement for putting tramps off the
premises. John was just explaining
how this was done when Fred. ex-
claimed, “ There’s an old fellow now;
I wonder if he is coming here!” Yes,
sure enough ; he turned in at the gate,
and presently there was a ring at the
door-bell. Beggars are so impudent,
and this was an old offender, so |
didn’t say anything when John pressed
the wire, and we all followed to the
door to see the effect, John remarking
that it wouldn’t hurt him. The door
was opened quite quietly, but closed
with a bang after the maid. At first,
upon re-opening the door, we thought
it had missed fire, for the tramp, look-
ing somewhat scared, stood at one side
of the doorway, but the maid was

Ling

so |

ssed

the
king
doc yr
losed
first,
ught
look-

> side

was

seuttling down the path with some
limp figure inits arms. I was sorry to
recognize an uncle of John’s, from whom
John had expectations. I knew his
bald head. ‘The maid had him by the
middle, and his feet and head hung
down, so that his hat dropped off. He
was too much surprised to attempt re-
sistance, and the maid deposited him
in a heap in the gutter, and then re-
turned. We were so bothered by the
turn affairs had taken that we forgot
to get out of the way. Fred received
i. slap which sent him sprawling. John
was lifted bodily, after the manner of
his unele, and laid upon the table,
while J], my skirts being caught, was
forced to run backwards in a very un-
lignitied manner, till, by grasping a
door-knob, | wrenched myself free at
the expense of a width of my skirt. I
stood hanging on to that door- knob as
if I expected momentarily to be
snatched up and thrown out of the
window, when my eyes happened to
fall upon Tommy. He was lying upon
his back on the floor, his legs slowly
waving in the air. He made not a
sound. ‘The expression on his face
gave me such a start that I relaxed
my hold on the door-knob, thinking
that he was injured internally. But
he raised his hand, and feebly waved
me aside. He was simply too tired to
laugh any more, and was obliged to
lie down and wave his legs to express
his feelings. Fred had begun to
whimper after picking himself up, but,
catching sight ‘of Tommy, laughed in-
stead, until something in their father’s
eye caused both of the boys to take
themselves out of doors. However,
they perched upon the fence just out-
side of a window and looked in.
“You see, Fanny, we must expect
some complications at first,” said John,
“but after awhile we'll get used to
running it better.” This he said as
the maid started out of the front door
again, after having buzzed around the
hall for a minute; for, as I told you, it
was necessary to start it at some new
work in order to stop what it was do-

THE AUTOMATIC MAID-OF-ALL-WORK.

397

ing, and,in the meantime, while we
were recovering our breath, it was
making trips through the hall to the
front gate, and hence to the gutter and
back again. John was explaining that
we could arrange the length of the
trip as we pleased, and it need ordin-
arily be only to the front door. Just
then, however, we heard most awful
screams, and we rushed to the door to
see what was the matter. It seems
that the maid had encountered at the
gate the form of a stout, elderly female,
with a basket and an umbrella, and of
course had proceeded to remove the
obstacle. However, the obstacle re-
fused to be removed, and they were
having a lively time of it. A crowd
was beginning to collect, and a po-
liceman appeared around the corner.
He interfered in behalf of the stout
female, and attempted to arrest the
maid. The maid, however, made short
work of him. It did not succeed, it’s
true, in depositing him in the ditch,
but it spoiled his hat, and caused him
to beat a hasty retreat; then, having
removed all obstacles, traversed the
remainder of the limit and returned to
the house, followed by another angry
policeman, who, after considerable per-
suasion, was induced to depart.

After the door closed upon the po-
liceman, John looked at me and I at
him. The maid had accomplished
several revolutions around the dining-
room and was about to return.
“ Mercy, Fanny, you're always talking
how much there is to do; can’t you
think of something I’m not supposed
to know.” “No,” | answered, grimly,
but an idea struck John, and he imme-
diately hurried to pull another wire.
He did not accomplish it with im-
punity, however, and I’m sorry to say
he made use of some expressions, as
he danced around for a minute, which
I was glad the boys didn’t hear.

The maid now went out to the wood-
shed, and John fixed the handle of the
axe into the attachment at the end of
one of the arms. Here was something
out of the ordinary way, and John

398

brightened up considerably as the axe
began to move up and down with a
regular, double motion, reached for-
ward, struck a stick at random with
the axe blade so as to catch the stick,
drew it forward into position and
struck it, splitting it in the centre, and
threw the pieces with two other arms
into the corner, and so on till the pile
began to get low. Any sticks that
were not split fine enough, John threw
back.

All proceeded well enough till the
last stick was split. Then the maid
started to buzz around in search of
more. It attacked the saw horse and
demolished it, ran into a tub and re-
duced it to kindling wood, ripped up
a barrel of ashes and raised a terrible
dust which completely drove John into
the house. All this time he was try-
ing to get near enough to start it off
on another track, but it wheeled
around and flung the axe so menacingly
that John got excited and lost his
head.

When the dust had subsided suffi-
ciently we went out again. By this
time the maid had anchored beside the
new wood pile and was splitting it
over. This would not have mattered
much ; we didn’t mind the wood being
reduced to matches, but it was close to
the shed window and the sticks were
being flung through, carrying broken
glass with them into the street. John
did not care for another visit from the
policeman, but he was completely
nonplussed. Just then he heard a
stitled chuckle and looking over his
shoulder he saw several boys perched
on the fence and among them our own,
who immediately dropped down. But
what maddened John was the sight of
a newspaper reporter also, who was
evidently sketching the scene. Then
the air began to be filled with flying
missiles which John threw at the maid,
till, by some lucky hit, some of the
machinery was jarred and the maid

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

rushed wildly around the shed, the axe
now slashing about with a motion ev-
idently intended for some other office
than wood chopping. John ran to
shut the door in the face of the report-
er who was filling sheets with sketches.
The maid, however, started after him.
John stopped, tried to dodge, hesitated,
then ran out of the back gate and down
the road, the maid thrashing at him
with the axe. This was serious. |
ran to the gate and anxiously looked
after them, while the boys and reporter
followed in the wake of the maid. [
very much feared the maid would run
into something and do some damage,
but I soon saw that, as, of course, John
avoided all obstacles so did the maid
and simply followed him. I wondered
why he did not reverse and pass the
maid, thus putting it off the track.
Presently, however, John returned
alone and looking somewhat travel-
stained. He pushed past me and
went upstairs to the bathroom. I did
not dare to follow to ask questions, but
Fred and Tommy also returned soon
and told me what happened after I
lost sight of them.

It seems that, first of all, the axe
flew off the handle and chopped a
rooster, which was scurrying out of
the way, almost in two. Then they
caught up withacow. It was quite
a bit out of town, and she started to
run in the same direction. John
swerved to one side and the maid
caught up with the cow and belabored
her with the axe handle. This mad-
dened the cow so that she made for
the river and rushed in, the maid after
her. They slashed about in the stream
for a minute: then the maid sank and
the cow appeared on the other side.

Next morning, about an hour after
John went down town, he sent up a
new carpet for the dining-room. We
have a German girl now, and I don’t
know but that she’s better than the
automatic maid-of-all-work.

lice

to
ort-
hes.
im.
bed ,
wn
tim

ked
rter

run
Age,
ohn
aid
red
the
ick.
ned
vel-
and

did
but
oon

r

axe
la
5 of
hey
uite
| to
ohn
daid
yred
1ad-
for
fter
eam
and
fter
ip a
We
on’t
the

ooo

THE CHAMOIS HUNTER.*

BY FLORENCE ASHTON FLETCHER.

Caapter VI.

The next morning, long before day-
light, Ulrich and the old crystal-seeker
were up and preparing for their expe-
ditions.

Uncle Job’s cottage was still smaller
and more miserable than old Trina’s.
The whole furniture consisted of a
bed, a small table and three stools, but
the four walls were ornamented with
the collections he had made on the
mountains. Those bright stones, and
dried plants, those butterflies and in-
sects, with their many-colored wings,
which tapestried his hut, gave to it an
indescribably strange air, to which the
old man himself added, with his old
world costume, his grey beard, and his
white hair, which fell in long locks
about his neck.

Uncle Job looked lovingly at his
treasures, as he rolled around himself
the rope that was to help him to reach
the nest he had discovered yesterday,
and loaded himself with his travelling
bag, iron crocks, iron pins, and the
short bar indispensable in his perilous
search,

Ulrich, during this time, was equal-
ly busy with his preparations. He
very carefully examined his gun, an
old hunting weapon, single-barrelled,
but able to hold two charges, which
might be fired one after the other.

Carefully loading it, he drew a
leather case over it, and joined Uncle
Job, who was waiting for him at the
door.

All the young man’s love had been
necessary, and the certainty that Trina
would only bestow the hand of Freneli
upon him who had fulfilled the strange
condition she imposed, to persuade

* This story is founded on a French story by Emile
Souvestre.

him to return to a life which he knew
only too well.

Is there another that can expose to
so many fatigues, privations and per-
ils? The hunter is in the habit of
starting in the evening, in order to
have reached some high part by day-
break. If he can find no tracks there,
he mounts higher, ever higher, only
stopping where he has seen some
marks which may lead him towards
his game. Then he advances cautious-
ly, sometimes on his knees, sometimes
dragging himself on by his hands, until
near enough to distinguish the chamois’
horns, as it is only then he is within
shot. If the chamois on watch—for
they always have a sentinel—has not
seen him, the hunter looks for a rest
for his rifle, and aims at the head or
heart; for when the ball strikes else-
where, it may pierce the animal
through without stopping him, and he
will go on and die in some nook in the
mountain, and serve for food for the
lammergeier.

If, however, lis course is cut short,
the hunter hastens after him, tries to
reach him and cuts off his haunches.
Then he must get the burden on his
shoulders, to carry it to his dwelling,
through torrents, snow and fearful
chasms. More often than not, night
overtakes him in this dangerous jour-
ney ; he seeks a cleft in a rock, draws
from his bag a morsel of black bread,
too hard for any teeth to bite; grinds
it between two stones, drinks a little
melted snow, puts a stone under his
head and goes to sleep—with his feet
over an abyss, and his head under an
avalanche.

The next day brings new trials and
new dangers, and this often lasts
several days, without his having found
a roof or seen a human being.

400

Formerly he might have hoped to
meet with some crystal-seeker or one
of his hunting companions, but the
first have nearly disappeared and the
second get more and more rare every
day. What had happene! among the
Hausers seemed to symbolize the
change that had taken place in the en-
tire population. Old Joh represented
an extinct generation, Hans that about
to end, and Ulrich that just begin-
ning.

But the old man and his nephew
had set out. The sky was not yet
light, and the frozen tops were carved
against a colorless horizon. The Liits-
chine was grumbling in the valley: a
strong wind made the snow-laden
pines groan : and at times the blows of
a hatchet were heard from the lower
parts. Job turned to his companion:

“I do not like this morning,” said
he in a thoughtful tone. The hoar
frost is making a plume of feathers for
the Faul Horn. Yesterday, the west

stayed a long time inflamed, and the

moon rose in a red circle. I am
afraid something is coming from the
south.”

“We are only just got into March,”
said Ulrich; “generally the foehn is
later.” (Foehn, a south wind or spe-
cies of tempest, possibly the same as
the sirocco in Italy.)

“That is what I have been telling
myself,” replied the old man, “but
appearances are none the less bad.
When you get higher up, look around
at the sky.”

While thus talking they had _ be-
gun to climb the mountain side. Both
walked with that firm and even step
natural to mountaineers, but Ulrich
went on mechanically, thoughtful and
sad, while the other became more
active aud joyous at every step. As
they got higher up on the slopes separ-
ating the Eiger and the Wengern Alp,
Uncle Job seemed to recognize every
rock, tree or tuft of green. He might
have been taken for an exile just
reaching the frontiers of his native
land. He went on searching into and

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

scrutinizing, in the growing dawn, all
the gaps that the snow had not in-
vaded, finding here a plant, there a
benumbed insect, further on a pebble
that he would name aloud. At length,
when they had reached the first storey
or range of the mountain, a reflection
of the aurora sparkling on the sum-
mits enveloped them in a purplish
hue, and showed them all the lesser
chains of the Eiger and Shreck-Horner
confusedly lit up, while the valley of
Grindelwald was still plunged in dark-
ness.

Uncle Job stopped.

“ Here we must separate, dear boy,”
saidhe. “ You must turn to the right
and I tothe left. Do you quite under-
stand my directions, and will you know
how to find your way ?”

“T hope so,” said the young man,
looking around him and trying to re-
cognize those heights which he had
not visited for several years.

“ At first,” said Uncle Job, “ follow
the path up along by those groups of
fir and birch trees. When you have
left them behind you will see a pro-
jecting shelf, which in any other sea-
son would be known easily enough by
its blue gentian and by bushes of red
clustered euphorbia, but now every-
thing is under the snow. Leave the
rock you will find at your right in a
line with the Eiger, and keep on as-
cending till you get to the passage of
flints, which is still garnished with thin
club moss, peeping through the stones.
You will then reach the great plain,
where you need only look around to
find out your whereabouts. Now let
us go, each in the care of God ; let us
ask Him to be with us.” Uncle Job
had taken off his hat; Ulrich did so,
too, and, resting on his staff, the old
man began aloud one of those im-
promptu prayers habitual to moun-
taineers, and which they know how
to make suitable to the wants of each
hour.

At this moment the sun, just risen,
inundated the mountain with brilliant
waves of light, rapidly descending

THE CHAMOIS HUNTER.

from peak to peak like a celestial aval-
anche. Summits, mountain-sides and
1avines, seemed one after another is-
suing from gloom to take their place
in this gigantic panorama.

Just as the old man was finishing
his prayer with the reverential amen,
the morning beams reached him; they
invaded the spot on which Job and
Ulrich were standing, and wrapped
them both in a dazzling glory. Job
turned to the east with a gesture of
thanks and salutation.

“Very good,” said he with a smile ;
“here is what will show us the game
and the precipices; now the rest de-
pends on our prudence. Recall to
your mind what a chamois-hunter
wants,—according to the proverb, ‘A
heart stouter than steel, and two eyes
to each finger.’ ”

“T will try not to forget it,” said
Ulrich.

“Then God be with you, my son.”

“ And 30 with you, Uncle Job.”

Tenderly shaking hands they parted.
The young man turned and saw Job
plunge into one of those deep folds
which furrow the mountain sides; he
was quickly lost to sight, but almost
immediately arose his clear and vibrat-
ing voice from the ravine; he was
singing the psalm repeated by the
martyrs of the Reformation when on
their way to death, “ This is the happy
day.”

CuapTer VII,

After listening a minute or two,
Ulrich began climbing up the steep as-
cent, and he soon passed the last fir
tree. As he got higher and higher,
the pcints seemed to increase before
him. The sun was still rising, and,
like a victor, rapidly taking the most
inaccessible fortresses, he attached suc-
cessively to each point his flaming
banner. The fogs that floated in the
lower parts broke up by degrees, and
were carried off by the morning wind,
like the shreds of a magnificent veil,
through the rents of which day glanc-
ed even to the depths of the valley.

401

Insensibly, and in spite of himself,
roused from his reverie, Ulrich began
to look at what was surrounding him.
There is in the mountain air, in the
thousand provocatives to curiosity, in
the proud boldness of all that meets
the eye, an indescribable excitement
that emboldens and strengthens. .

The body feels more active, the
mind more couxayzeus. in the fees pf
those snows, which {forbid aay ap:
proach, those precipices which bar the
way, one is seized with a sort of ag-
gressive fever, juat as before an enemy ;
one hears from within one’s self all the
fanfares of life, and a thousand inward
voices cry at once—*“ Forward !” Seiz-
ed with this species of intoxication,
the young carver quickened his speed,
and got into the dangerous paths of
the lesser chain.

Summer huts, scattered here and
there in the lower ranges, were so
buried under the snow as scarcely to
relieve it; nothing could be seen but
some stunted fir trees, and a few
bushes of dwarf box piercing the ster-
ile ground.

Soon even these disappeared, and
the rocks were naked, spotted only by
the trailings of the hoar frost.

At length Ulrich reached the flinty
passage spoken of by his uncle. It
was a deep breach cut into the rock,
and into which the sun could never
penetrate. He was just going into it,
when a shadow arose in the darkened
entrance, and he recognized his cousin
Hans.

The hunter wore the same dress he
had worn the day before. His gun
hung from his shoulder by a belt, and
both hands were resting on his iron-
spiked staff. His face was even more
gloomy than usual. He seemed to be
guarding the defile through which U1-
rich had to pass.

At sight of him Ulrich stopped with
an exclamation of surprise.

“ You here, Hans,” cried he, “ God be
with you! Which way did you get
here ?”

“Ts there only one path in the Wen-

402

gern Alp?” asked the hunter, coldly.
“What were you doing?”
“T saw you coming. I was waiting
for you.”
“You have something to say to me ?”
“ Are you not come in search of the
chamois that Uncle J ob saw yester-
day:?’

“You wil not. dnd ‘toem—-I have
jus seen tratks ‘of. them; they are
gone towards the glaciers.”

“Ab well! I will follow them in
that direction.”

“ Are you decided ?”

“Yes, why not ?”

“Then we will hunt together,” said
Hans, raising his staff, as if he wished
to set out.

This was the first time he had ever
made such a proposition to Ulrich,
who looked at him in a surprised man-
ner, which Hans thought he understood.

“ Are you afraid of my company ?”
demanded he roughly.

“Why should I be afraid of it?”
replied Ulrich.

“Who knows? Perhaps you think
you will have to follow me too high
and too far?”

“By my life! I did not think of
that,” replied Ulrich rather haughtily.
“Although you may be a far better
hunter than I, yet I have not so for-
gotten my old trade that I cannot go
where you do.”

“Let us set off then,” interrupted
Hans, entering the narrow passage and
beginning to climb.

Ulrich followed, and soon they reach-
ed the plateau, whence diverge numer-
ous paths in all directions.

The hunter showed Ulrich the marks
of which he had spoken, and which
really indicated the recent course of a
troop of chamois towards the highest
peaks,

Then leaving Upsigel at their right,
they resolutely attacked the slopes
which separate the Eiger from the
Wengern-Alp. They were not long in
getting to the snow which covered the

first mountain-side, and they crossed

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

it in a straight line, guided by the
tracks; but on the other side of the
slope these tracks were suddenly lost
in the fields of crystalline ice lying
spread at their feet. As far as the eye
could reach, nothing could be seen but
high points, between which lay frozen
sheets bounded by grey blocks of rock.
They might have been likened to the
out-pouring of gigantic rivers from
the sky and suddenly congealed in
their fall.

The hunters had now reached exact-
ly the entrance of that prodigious dyke
of glaciers which seems to bar the pas-
sage of the Alps to man for the space
of a hundred and fifty leagues.

Here was the ice sea of Grindelwald
and Aletsch; further off the frozen
lakes of Fischer, Finster-Aar, Lauter
and Gauli.

Hans seemed for a moment to study
the different routes, and then, without
saying a word, he went southward.
His step had a feverish rapidity and a
provoking assurance in it. The more
difficult the way became the greater
his speed, leaping crevasses, clamber-
ing steep and rugged parts, and bound-
ing down frozen ravines, with a sort
of contemptuous anger. His whole
being seemed to have undergone a
change since he had entered upon
those lofty solitudes; his eye was fired
with a proud ardour, his dilated nos-
trils appeared to inhale the sharper air
of the summits, and his lips moved at
times as if he were murmuring to him-
self some mysterious defiance.

He would utter a slight exclamation
as each fresh obstacle rose before him,
then clear it with a bound. At sight
of such angry impetuosity one would
have taken him for a barbarian con-
queror treading under foot an enemy’s
earth, and verifying and enjoying his
victory at every step. And this exul-
tation, far from getting less, increased
with the dangers of their route. This
was, indeed, his field of battle; as the
smell of powder animates the soldier,
so the air of these desert heights intox-
icated him.

r+ oO @

© US

co

5 5&5 @® :' Bb

is
il-
ed
is
he
or,
x-

Ulrich, who at first had followed in
silence, got alarmed at this headlong
race, asking himself what could be
hoped for from the ocean of ice sur-
rounding them on all sides. For the
tirst time he addressed his companion.
Hans simply pointed to the horizon,
replying, “ Onward !”

Other glaciers were crossed, more
blocks and crags surmounted. At each
repetition of the question, the furious
hunter answered, “Onward! still on-
ward !”

Caaprer VIII.

Meanwhile, however, the sky had
become clouded, dull roarings were
heard in the distance, and puffs of a
warm wind were felt across the ice
plain. Ulrich warned his companion,
but wholly engrossed in his sombre
preoccupation, Hans seemed a stranger
to everything passing around him.
The young carver, hot and panting for
breath, looked in every direction with-
out being able to tell where they were.
It was a kind of terrace formed in the
bend of a glacier, and bounding gap-
ing chasms.

He stopped for a moment, and put
his hand to his forehead, which was
wet with perspiration. Hans turned
then; nothing about him showed that
he had even noticed this long march
and combat with so many difficulties
and perils. His face was as cool, his
step as elastic, and his breathing as
tree as ever.

He was one of those last Alpine sav-
ages,accustomed, like the red Indian, to
sleep in the open air, to follow tracks,
to endure long ambuscades, to struggle
against all the dangers of a hostile
nature, and to conquer everything by
strength or patience.

Ulrich, on the contrary, was of the
present or new race, which civiliza-
tion—as formerly the lyre of Orphe-
us—incited to milder manners, and
which, softened in its vigor, but ele-
vated in its soul, has substituted soci-
ability for strength, and justice for
vengeance.

THE CHAMOIS HUNTER

403

Ulrich sought out a rock from
among those which enchain the glac-
iers in their solid waves, and sat upon
it.

Hans glanced sneeringly at him.

“Ah! bold hunter, are you already
done up ?” asked he.

“ Not vet,” replied Ulrich, “although
you seem to have no other aim than
to find out how far my strength can
go. 7

“Did you not wish to face the
mountains and return to the pursuit
of chamois ?”

“T still wish it.”

“I suppose you are not Satisfied
at Merengen, carving yew and maple ?”

“What!” cried U lrich, with invol-
untary ardour, “do not think that. I
seem to breathe most freely when my
knife is cutting wood. What you feel
here amon s these heights, I feel with
my tools in my hand ; my eye sees
clearer, my blood flows faster than
even now. When we were climbing
the last range, while you were show-
ing me the tracks, I was looking at a
tuft of cyclamen, spreading its leaves
in the hollow of the rock, and wish-
ing that I might copy it with my
knife.”

“Why then do you take up the
rifle again ?” hastily enquired Hans.

Ulrich was embarassed. “ It is neces-
sary,” said he, rising, “for a reason—
you will know afterwards. Let us go
on now.”

“No, stay,” interrupted Hans, stop-
ping him with an imperious gesture.
“T need not wait to know what you
will not tell me. I know it all; you
have turned hunter because it is the
only way to get Freneli, and you love
her.”

“Tt is true,” replied Ulrich, unhesi-
tatingly. “Was it to ask me this
that you waited for me at the breach
of the Wengern Alp, and that you
brought me here ?”

Hans grasped his gun and looked
fixedly at him.

“So you confess it,”
compressed lips, “

said he, with
and yet you know

404

that I have chosen Neli; say, do you
not know it ?”

“ Yes,” said Ulrich, calmly; “ but
as Neli is free our wills are nothing ;
she alone will choose.”

“And you know she has already
done so, do you not?” added Hans,
with kindling eyes. “ You have used
your opportunities and turned her
heart towards you. I have known
only how to suffer alone and be silent,
while, you—you have been able to
speak. I have only brought black
bread to the house every day; you
come with carved cups. I saw that
one yesterday. But you do not sup-
pose I shall let myself be robbed of
my happiness without revenge ?”

“ What do you mean ?” interrupted
Ulrich, shuddering.

“ Listen,” continued he, seizing Ul-
rich’s arm. “I wished to speak to
you in a place where no one could in-
terfere. Hear what I am going to
tell you. Neli must be mine; she

shall be, whatever happens; do you

hear? And if any one dare to take
her from me, as sure as I am my
mother’s son, I would kill him, if he
were my friend,—yes, if he were my
brother. For years past I have mar-
ried Neli in intention; I have carried
the idea about with me in the moun-
tains to keep me company; it has
been my rest and my pleasure. I
warn you, do not upset my hopes, or
by the God in heaven, harm will come
to you!”

“It is not my cousin who is speak-
ing now,” said Ulrich, with emotion,
“it is a demon that is tempting him
and speaking in his stead. Let us
leave all to God, who knows if it may
not soon be all you could wish. You
know the cundition of obtaining Fre-
neli; in trying each to fulfil that con-
dition, may not that fate which has
hitherto been the lot of all the
Hausers be in store for one of us,
and so leave the place free for the
other ?”

Hans fixed his glittering eyes upon
him, and said:

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

“And that other—you are hoping
it will be you.”

Ulrich shook his head. “ You know
that all the chances are against me,”
replied he, bitterly ; “and | should be
the one with the greatest right to
complain if I did not trust to Him
who is above.”

“But when will He decide between
us ?” cried Hans, passionately.

“This very hour, perhaps. Till now
you have been blind and deaf with
anger, but listen and look yonder,” said
the carver, who for some moments had
been attending to the increasing noises
and the darkness which was beginning
to envelope the mountain.

With his hand he pointed southward.

Large furrowed clouds, as if driven
on by some furious power, were rapid-
ly descending along the highest points ;
the sharp air of the glaciers became
lukewarm, and loud and confused rum-
blings were heard in the depths of the
snowy defiles.

After a quick glance at these symp-
toms, a flash of furious joy passed
across the face of Hans.

“By my faith! you spoke like a
prophet,” said he, turning to his cou-
sin, “ and your prediction is very likely
to come true.”

“ I believe there is in reality a storm
coming,” observed Ulrich.

“Tt is the foehn coming,” cried Hans
with his eyes fixed on the sky; “do
you fee] how warm the breeze is? Do
you see those whirling clouds down
below ?”

Ulrich iminediately recollected the
fears Uncle Job had expressed in the
morning. He knew this burning whirl-
wind, which comes from the deserts of
Africa, and, falling upon the Alps,
breaks and crushes the winter's snow
and ice and almost everything in its
way. Even in the lowest valleys all
the cattle have to be taken in at the
first sign of the foehn; every tire is

ut out, and no one dares cross the
threshold of the house. Ulrich asked
his cousin if he were quite sure it
was the foehn.

> &
ou-
ely

rm

ans
do

Do
wn

the
the
‘irl-
s of
Ips,
10W
its
all
the
» is
the
skked
e it

THE CHAMOIS HUNTER. 405

‘Quite sure;” replied Hans, who
had lifted his hand to feel the wind,
“in a few minutes it will be here. You
have wished that God should decide.
God has heard you and is about to do
so. He who can get back to the Enge
will have Neli. Good-bye, take care
of your life; I will try to save mine.”

CHAPTER [X.

And without waiting for an answer,
Hans rushed to the narrowest part of
the erevasse, rested his staff on the
opposite edge, gave one bound and was
on the other side. Ulrich tried in vain
to call him; the hunter ran on with-
out heeding and was soon lost in the
thick clouds advancing along the moun-
tain sides. Having no means of bound-
iny in his turn the fissure separating
them, Ulrich had to retrace his steps.

Followed already by breezes, fore-
runners of the foehn, he retook the
route by the glaciers. Instead of gain-
ing some height as Hans sought to do,
where the effects of the south wind
are less felt, Ulrich descended as quick-
ly as possible towards the Wengern-
Alp, but the snow, already softened,
was beginning to melt, and here and
there many crackings were heard in
the glacier. Warm gusts of wind
swept by from time to time, and got
lost amid lugubrious hissings in the nee-
dles of ice. A few birds of prey, over-
taken in their flight, were trying with
their greatest speed to regain their re-
treat, and were uttering mournful cries;
and from below was heard the Alpine
horn, the notes of which, plaintively
prolonged, bounded from abyss to abyss,
awakening a thousand echoes, invisible
sentinels of the mountain, sending on
the ery of alarm.

Ulrich looked anxiously at the sky.
The clouds were coming nearer and
faster. Already the neighboring tops
were lost, and he found himself envel-
oped in a misty rampart, getting nar-
rower and smaller on all sides, and
pushed on by the foehn. At length
it came in all its violence. The young

man, carried along by it, continued
obliquely the descent of the glacier,
occupied solely in avoiding the crevas-
ses in which he would have been swal-
lowed up. Thus he reached an angle,
where he was able to stop, the wind
being broken by a projecting piece of
the mountain. He fell to the earth,
so stunned and out of breath that he
was for some little time incapable of
moving.

When at last he could rouse himself
and look about him, everything had
again changed its aspect.

Swept away by the violence of the
foehn, the clouds were floating in the
distance, and the mountain thoroughly
freed, displayed even its finest peaks,
but the African wind still whirled
around the summits, still glided over
the declivities and engulfed itself in
the defiles; and everything was soft-
ened from its inflaming contact. Un-
der the melted and sunken snow,
streams were springing up and rushing
down into the ravines in white cas-
cades.

Ulrich rose, and sheltering himself
from the fierceness of the gusts by
means of the high furrows intersecting
the glacier, he continued his way with
ever increasing effort. He had never
before this been exposed to the foehn
except in the valleys, where it arrives
much moderated from its passaye over
the mountains, and so had never sus-
pected what it was on those frozen
heights, which almost seein suddenly
to dissolve beneath its breath.

As he continued his arduous and
dangerous route, the snow melted fast-
er and faster. The streams, grown to
torrents, tumbled over the steep sides
and slopes, and, ever growing wider,
were uniting their unbridled waters.

Rocks, torn up from their frozen
casings, rolled over the slippery in-
clines, then, repulsed by the first im-
pediment, leapt in huge bounds, clear-
ed immense blocks and fell into abys-
ses, where they were long heard dash-
ing along against the resounding walls.

‘Beds of snow accumulated on the

406

ridges, roughly uprooted, rushed down
with a noise like thunder, collecting
and driving on in their course every-
thing they found before them. These
winter-built Alps seemed every min-
ute crumbling to ruin, and their tre-
mendous downfall blocked up every
road, one after another.

In vain Ulrich sought some means
of escape. Here a cascade had sub-
merged, there an avalanche had buried
the way. On the right a rock thrown
over a chasm had just given way; on
the left, a fissure suddenly burst open ;
everywhere were heard grindings of
breaking-up ice, furious gusts of wind,
thundering of avalanches, the roarings
of unchained waters, and, above all
this chaos, night was fast coming on
to cut off from him his last hope. Still
the young mountaineer kept up his
combat with all these increasing dan-
gers.

Amidst the confusion of his troubled
and disconnected thoughts, the re-
membrance of Freneli seemed to float
on the surface, and give him a wish to
live, which greatly tended to keep up
his strength. Unfortunately, he could
not tell where he was. Stunned by
the noises, blinded by the dazzling
whiteness around him, perplexed by
the turnings which obstacles had oblig-
ed him to take, he could not again
find his whereabouts. It was especi-
ally necessary to be sure of this be-
fore night took from him the only
chance of ascertaining.

He had again stopped to try to ac-
count for the position of the tops that
he could yet see lighted by day’s last
beams, and had succeeded in recogniz-
ing the highest summit, then, by de-
grees, those nearer to him, when a
loud noise suddenly resounded in the
depths of the glacier, and issued still
louder through all the fissures.

At this moment Ulrich tottered ;
the whole glacier had shaken under
his feet. Soon a second shock was
nearly making him lose his balance ;
then others followed closer together,
and more equal, and at last became

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

confounded in one uniform but sen-
sible movement. There was no longer
any mistaking; the winter’s accumu-
lation of snows and half-formed ice
upon the glacier was en marche, and
steadily descending towards the val-
ley.

While a glacier of great size and
age becomes established as any piece
of the earth, being naturally aug-
mented year by year until it forms
one huge and solid mass that could
not be set in motion by any one day’s
south wind, yet a newly-forming one,
or ice not yet wholly compacted,
might be uprooted by such an unusu-
ally severe foehn as this.

Seeing that the least delay was a
matter of life or death, Ulrich turned
and tried hard to reach the nearest
pinnacle. Although the distance was
not great, it was full of difficulty. Be-
sides the torrents foaming from the
heights, all the bridges of hardened
snow over openings had given way,
and left a thousand yawning abysses,
at the bottom of which roared the
waters.

Ulrich, though stumbling at each
step, succeeded in getting out of the
main movements of the melting snow,
and was nearly reaching the limits of
the glacier. He had already crossed
several bridges of snow without a sus-
picion of them, and had just recog-
nized one of the lesser chains of
the glacier. This sight reanimated
him, and, collecting all his courage for
a last effort, he hurried on; when sud-
denly the earth gave way. He had
only time to stretch one arm to the
right and the other to the left to hold
on by, and remained thus buried up
to his waist in the half-fallen arch of
snow.

It was a moment of intense sus-
pense. He felt his feet, which were
hanging, getting cold from the wind
in the chasm. Motionless, and hold-
ing his breath even, he stayed some
seconds in this position, trying to
guess the size of the opening ; then he
gently reached his hand towards his

THE CHAMOIS HUNTER.

gun, which he had let go, with the
hope that by resting it across the gap
it might help to support him, but at
this moment the softened snow yield-
ed, a slight cracking ran along the fis-
sure, and the bridge, sinking as an
avalanche, disappeared with him in
the abyss below.

CHAPTER X.

By the return of daylight the next
morning, the foehn had ceased to
blow, but its passage might be traced
by the spaces filled up, the tops clear-
ed of snow, and the swollen torrents
still discharging themselves in the
valleys.

The sky had recovered its usual
winter tint of pale blue, and was quite
cloudless, which made it look like an
immense veil suspended above the
Alps. The temperature was, however,
perceptibly softened, and there was a
feeling of spring in the air, sensible
even on these sharp heights; the gla-
ciers were restored to mute immov-
ability, and silence reigned again su-
preme in these wild deserts.

Sheltered on one of the loftiest
points, Uncle Job had in safety seen
the foehn pass, but the snow, which
was continually freeing itself from the
slopes, obliged him to put off his in-
tended crystal-nesting exploit.

As soon as dawn reappeared, the
old man calmly bent his steps towards
the lower ranges, where he hoped the
thaw would have prepared for him a
harvest of plants. He soon reached
the spot where the shaking of the
glacier had overtaken Ulrich. His
way did not take him nearer any part
of that frozen sea; roused curiosity
alone Jed him to look more closely at
this strange revolution.

At first he went carefully along by
the side, but afterwards cautiously
ventured upon the frozen surface,
stopping every minute or two to be
sure hedidnot feelitslipping under him.

At every step there were witnesses
of yesterday’s ravages in crevices here

407

filled up, and here enlarged, and in the
sunken bridges of snow all around.

In reaching one of these bridges, of
which there was left only a slight
part on an arch miraculously upheld
over the gulf, Uncle Job perceived,
half buried in the snow, an object for
which at first he could not account.
But scarcely had he lifted it up, when
a cry escaped him ; he recognized the
rifle of Ulrich.

Full of horror, he turned to the
gaping fissure. Still visible on the
snowy surface were traces of the
young hunter's steps and the place
where he had disappeared. The old
man tried to look to the bottom, but
the crevasse, revealing at first two
walls of azure green, suddenly made
a turn and nothing more than a dark
and profound depth could be seen.

Uncle Job knelt on the edge, how-
ever, and, bending his head over the
opening, called aloud. His voice was
faintly re-echoed along the mysterious
deep. He listened; there was no an-
swer. Leaning still further over, he
uttered a second and more prolonged
ery; thena third. This time he fan-
cied he caught a sound, but so uncer-
tain that he feared it might only be
the filtering of the subterraneous
waters, or the return of his own voice.

However, at renewed calls, the reply
became less confused, and without
being able to distinguish the words
spoken, Job could yet hear that it was
a human voice.

Quickly springing to his feet, he
unrolled the rope he carried round
him, and after fixing it firmly by
means of an iron crook driven into
the ice, he let it slip to the bottom of
the chasm, to the place whence the
voice had come. The end of the rope
was quite lost to sight, and remained
swinging for some seconds.

Again reaching as far as he could
over the brink, Uncle Job renewed his
call. At last, it seemed to him the
cord was moving ; it became straight-
ened, and knocked against the sides of
the fissure.

408

With one knee resting on the ex-
treme edge, the old man kept his right
hand firmly holding the iron crook,
and looked into the darkness below.
All at once the motion of the rope
ceased ; he who had begun to mount
stopped.

“Courage,” cried Uncle Job;
not give up ; one more effort.”

But the cord remained still.
agony he hung over the brink.

“Come,” said he, in a stronger voice.
“Tt is I, Ulrich; it is Uncle Job. God
has sent me to aid you. He will save
you. Help me, my son, if you area
man—if you wish to see Aunt Trina
and Freneli again!”

At this last name the rope once
more shook ; there followed a moment’s
uncertainty, then again all was still.
In vain did Uncle Job repeat his en-
couragements, and strain his eyes.
There was not a movement. He look-
ed around in despair, divining that
Ulrich’s long stay in this grave of ice
had numbed him so that he could not

“ do
Tn

climb, and fearing that ere help from
the valley could be obtained it would
be too late.

Leaning as far over the chasm as
he dared, he shouted to Ulrich to tie

the rope under his shoulders. After
what seemed an eternity of waiting,
the tightening of the rope told him it
was done.

There followed a moment's uncer-
tainty, then a continuous movement ;
the ascent was begun.

With his eyes fixed on the chasm,
the old man ceaselessly encouraged the
enfeebled man below. At length, from
the darkness he saw an uncovered and
stiffened head coming up. Icicles hung
from the masses of hair, and the face,
lighted by the greenish reflection from
the glacier, looked almost petrified.
From the automaton-like slowness of
the motion one might have fancied it
a corpse galvanized by some magical
conjuration, issuing from the centre of
the earth, without thought or voice.

The moment this head rose to the
top, Uncle Job drew the rope to him

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

with all his might, and Ulrich lay
stretched on the edge of the crevasse.
The old mountaineer uttered an ex-
clamation of joy, and getting his
gourd, without which he never went,
he, after some trouble, unlocked the
young man’s teeth and made him swal
low a little brandy ; then he rubbec
his face and hands with snow, unti
he had succeeded in bringing him
back to sensibility; and at lengtl
Ulrich was able partially to open his
blue lips.

“May heaven reward you,” stam.
mered he. “ Without your help I
must have died.”

‘“¢ Say without the help of God,” re
plied the old man. “He alone is
master, and we are only the servants
of His will.”

“ Ah, well!
you

”

Thanks to God and to
all His blessings
murmured Ulrich, yielding to
the sleepy languor caused by fatigue
and cold.

“Come, come!” interrupted Job;
“bestir yourself and get up.”

“Not yet . by and by,”
stammered the young man, with his
eyes shut.

“By and by will be too late,”
cried the crystal-seeker, shaking him.
“Stand up, Ulrich; you must; your
strength will come back to you in
walking, and we will rest at the first
cottage. If you stay here you area
dead man. Rise once more; it is for
your life.”

He forced his nephew tc his feet
and dragged him in spite of himself
across the glacier, tottering, his head
moving unsteadily and his eyelids half
closed. Job tried to revive him by
encouraging him and asking questions.
By degrees Ulrich’s blood began to
circulate, and he was able after a time
to relate in broken words his flight
before the foehn, his fall into the fis-
sure, how weakened he was by the
avalanche which had drawn him
there, and his long agony at the bot-
tom. He only kept silence as to his
meeting with Hans.

THE CHAMOIS HUNTER.

CuHaPTerR XI.

Uncle Job appeared surprised that
with his very moderate experience he
should thus have ventured alone in
the heights.

“JT thought you were wiser,” said
he, shaking his head; “ but the moun-
tain air is like wine; very few can
irink moderately and without losing
heir reason. I ought to have remem-
bered that the Hauser’s blood ran in
your veins. God pardon me! I hoped
ihe hunting fever would only have
won your cousin, for Hans was also
m the heights.”

“Have you seen him?” enquired
Ulrich.

“Not him, but the mark of his
steps; this morning I recognized them
on the snow in pursuit of chamois
tracks.”

“ Ah, that is the troop he was look-
ing for,” cried Ulrich. “The one he

saw the day before yesterday led by

an emperor.”

“Tt is very possible; the tracks
went northwards.”

“To the foot of the Eiger ?”

“No; there, nearer to us, on the
right.”

And Uncle Job’s hand pointed to-
wards one of the overhanging arches
of the glacier that they had been fol-
lowing during the last few minutes,
and by the side of which ran a kind
of projecting ledge, notched and brok-
en here and there. Below them the
slope, at first jagged and roughly cut
away, ended in a long sheltered space,
like a band, where the melted snow
had exposed to view a very fine patch
of grass of that bluish tint peculiar to
Alpine pasturages. It begirt the foot
of the sterile peak like a ribbon of
velvet, which, beginning there from
the glacier, went on down and joined
the skirts of the forest of fir and birch
trees.

The young carver had stopped, his
eyes were bent on the green corner,
when suddenly he forced his compan-
ion to throw himself with him behind

499

one of the irregular rocks by which
they were surrounded. ;

“ What is the matter?” asked Job,
instinctively lowering his voice.

“Look ! look !” whispered Ulrich,
“down there at the turning of the
pasturage.”

The old man shielded his eyes with
his hand, and saw, in the direction
pointed out, a troop of nine chamois
turning the mountain, their emperor
at their head. By their wild and
frightened speed it was easy to guess
they were being pursued, but for some
time Uncle Job and Ulrich looked in
vain around the foot of the peak for
the hunter. At last, however, they
both saw him on the projection which
surmounted it, and they both recog-
nized Hans.

While the chamois were rushing
along the pasturage, Hans kept, so to
speak, side by side with them on this
ledge, trying to get in advance of
them.

Uncle Job and Ulrich in terror
watched him running along the nar-
rowest strips and leaping the widest
breaches, now hanging from some
point of rock and crawling over the
slippery surfaces. There seemed in
his audacity such supreme contempt
of the impossible that it made one
giddy. Carried away in a sort of de-
lirium, he went on as if he had been
sovereign master of space, hearing
nothing, seeing nothing, every sense
fixed solely on his prey.

At length he succeeded in getting
a little ahead of them, and in order
more securely to stop the passage from
the emperor leading them, he jumped
on to an extreme point of rock, separ-
ated from the ledge.

Job seized his companion’s hand,
withholding the ery ready to escape,
and not daring todo more. Hans had
squatted himself on the narrow foot
of earth that held him and taken aim.

At this moment the chamvis were
passing at his feet. The rifle was fired
and the emperor fell. The hunter
gave a cry of victory, which, in spite

410

of the distance, was distinctly heard
by the watchers ; but, as he stood up,
his gun still smoking in his hand, the
stone on which his foot rested sudden-

ly gave way. He stretched out his
arms to balance himself—it was too
late, his hands slipped over this wall
of rock, polished by the winter frost,
and bounding from crag to crag, he
fell, crushed and lifeless, down to the
pasturage not twenty steps from the
chamois he had just killed.

CHAPTER XII.

Some hours after, the disfigured
body of Hans was brought to the cot-
tage of the Enge. Old Trina, who
had been prepared by Uncle Job, re-
ceived the mournful news at the door
of the hut. She looked at the dead
man for some minutes, her features
wrinkled by a savage kind of sorrow.

“One more!” murmured she, short-
ly, “but it was to be. He had seen
the phantom chamois; it was the
notice. The mountain spirit is strong-
est,” and without another word she
sat down upon a stone and buried her
face in her hands.

Freneli and Ulrich made an attempt
to go to her, but she made a sign to be
left alone. It was only when they were
about to prepare Hans for burial that
she slowly arose and entered the hut,
and busied herself, too, with him. She
watched by his bed unceasingly until
the day of the funeral.

The inhabitants of the valley and
mountain-side, having heard of the
sorrowful misfortune that had hap-
pened on the heights, came in crowds
to pay their last respects to the re-
mains of the hunter.

He was extended on a bier made of
green boughs, his head resting on the

”

THE CANADIAN MAGAZINE.

emperor of chamois which had cost
him his life. Behind walked the
grandmother with a haggard face, U1-
rich deeply moved, and Freneli unable
to restrain her tears.
_ Just at the moment when the pro-
cession turned from the path leading
to the cottage, the sun appeared on
the mountains, where, for the past
four months he had not been seen, and
threw into the hollow of the Enge one
of his golden rays.

There was a movement throughout

the crowd. Trina herself was touched.

She looked involuntarily at the dead
man, and her hard eyes were moist-
ened.

The loss of Hans was a blow from
which she never recovered. They saw
her bend more and get weaker from
hour to hour until the day of her
death, which came only two or three
months after. She expired with her
eyes fixed on the dark walnut press,
which she had had opened, and where
the skull of the last chamois killed by
Hans had been added to the others.

Henceforth alone and mistress of
her fate, Freneli became the wife of
Ulrich, and went to live with him at
Merengen, where they were soon join-
ed by Uncle Job.

Whoever may be passing through
the valleys of the Hasli, the heights of
Brunig and the great Scheidech, or
the approaches to the Grimsel, is
nearly certain still to meet the in-
defatigable crystal-seeker wandering
among the most lonely paths and sing-
ing his old psalm-tunes to the moun-
tain breezes, to which, like a prodi-
gious organ, the roaring of the aval-
anches and the splashing of the cas-
cades form accompaniment.

THE END.

<a en 3688

RED 33

PARLIAMENT SQUARE, OTTAWA.

FROM RIDEAU CANAL.

S|

ce